Black Evening Bruises

My heart pounding, a drum-beat within
my ribs, against the very crust of my chest,
my skin merely four layers from yours -
shirt sweater jacket shirt, skin. My heart knows,
and it beats lasciviously, wanton
to feel the reciprocating thump
of yours, beating beneath your radiator-skin.
Two hearts bumping together, and I'm yours.
 
When you swallow black evening air
it fills your heart not your lungs, I should know;
it fills your eyes and your mind, and
tingles in the shivery corner of your belly.
Your eyes are kissing mine - lingering,
soft, continuous; I'm silent, I swoon,
I can't fall, you've already caught me
and your hands are so gentle they're
bruising my heart to the point
of an aching, sore perfection.

Our lips embracing in small sips, savoring,
and honestly I didn't know kisses could taste
like beginnings and breezes and cities
through the rose-hue of darkness, and how
spontaneous love begins craving, and how
this will soon be a lovesick memory.

Each stroke of your lips against mine bruises
me further, and I know my heart will be
dark-blue tomorrow  (this ephemeral happiness
aches with poignancy) but I trust the black
evening air; it soothes my skin with the promise
that tonight is for us, and I know
you've got me.