The forbidden one would taste like cranberries,
but he moves close, then away,
loyalty waxing to and from lust.
I breathe for him to kiss me, I shake.
And, coming from behind me, he rests one hand
on my waist as he reaches past
and I scream (explode)
melt
die

but he moves away again, the moment
over. And we must pretend it is only a sandwich
and not desire like a lion, urging me, begging me
to run my hands between shirt and skin,
Taste him,
press my hips against him as I pull him
Close, pour myself into him
and absorb his warmth.

His hands would snatch at me, pull. . .
and on the floor, there in the kitchen
the world would submit to hunger,
heat making me forget tomorrow,
trading my soul for touch.

But he takes his sandwich, and he walks away.
I cannot breathe for the fire in my chest.
If he doesn't touch me --

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