Butterscotch

You never swallow lozenges.
You wait and roll
Them slickly hours
Over your tickled tongue,
Richly bringing out
Your thirst.
They coat you thick.
You fight the urge
To bite.

This room and bed is ours,
Never mind the brick exposed.
She reads a poem aloud,
A broken hunger
Bleeding through
The humid night,
Her reddened mouth still open
From the final rounded
Vowels.

- 11/17/25

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