When we're kissing, don't worry about your chapped lips.
Focus instead on what my fingers feel like in your hair,
And the pounding of my heart on your chest.
Don't think about stopping to apply Chapstick because
My butterflies are filling my throat and begging to be freed,
Threatening to spill into your breath, and I have no time to wait.
Each slow breath is a line of poetry
That I can taste on your tongue,
And I'm getting high on your analogies.
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