in scenes
of ebony and violet
that cover us as we sleep
miles apart except in corners of our hearts
that we've made altars of desire
the question
writes itself in script
made of honey, cinnamon
and the breath of mangoes;
if we ever dared to kiss for real
would the ink you wear so delicately
drip away due to the heat
and color me
and you
insatiable?
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