by Devon N P Pruitt
I sip green, earthy and strong, but he prefers sweet peach.
Blushing cherry blossoms bloom across the cup, bright and warm as his cheeks.
Her hands are scorched by the smooth, hot ceramic
of the glazed mug, lips burnt from amber liquid.
The bright blush of his cheeks like cherry blossoms on porcelain,
his smile curling steam, her laugh like bubbling water.
She swallows liquid amber with burning lips, leans in to me;
her breath is perfumed with chamomile and rosebuds.
Water bubbles and swirls as it pours, steam swirling
from cracked cream-colored mugs rimmed with shining gold.
Her breath tastes like chamomile and blackberries.
We stir in honey and sugar until it’s sweet as syrup.
Gold light shining off the rim of my cup,
it pauses on my lips as I blow to cool the simmering room.
He stirs honey with his tongue, licks sweet sugar from the spoon
as she trails her pale fingers across my skin.
The room simmers and steeps and I pause, lips open
to taste earthy green and sweet peach in the air.
Pale fingers trailing across my skin,
her hands are smooth and scorching hot.