Love Soup

 My mouth

 Meets your

 Mouth,

 Moves south,

 Missing nothing,

 Making mouth music,

 Moving you to

 Mutter, “Don’t

 Muff it, dear.” A-

 Mused, I

 Move closer to your

 Molten bowl,

 Meticulously molded,

 Muskily scented.

“My middle, please,” you

 Murmur.

“Mystery achievement

 Mustn’t be rushed,

 My sweet.” I

 Master urges to hurry,

 Meander, then

 Marry mouth to

 

 Mons, sip,

 Muse a

 Moment, then slurp.

“Memorable,” say I.

“Magnificent,” you reply.

 Movement quickens.

 Mutual meltdown,

 My goal, looms. I

 Match each twitch you

 Make with

 Mad twists of the tongue,

 Maddening you and

 Me, too. You muss

 My hair as I

 Moisten yours. You

 Moan, shriek, become

 Momentarily mute.

“Ma’am,” I

 Mumble, “have we

 Met?” Laughter

 Makes you quake, letting

 Me hope I’ve made

 

 Good.

 

Atlanta-Mobile

1991-2008

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