By one caress, my fingers had met
the last of the warts
that reside on your hand.

By one year of caressing, however,
you’d encountered the first of the
burns that traverse
my fingers.

I kiss your abnormalities,
while you suckle my scars
with utmost care.
If this were any less awkward,
they wouldn’t be calling it
love.

We may take our turns,
for you’ve scars as well,
and a birthmark rests
on my shoulderblade.

With the tastes of hidden fears
and blaring deviances
being drowned inside the salivas
that all of the crowds are calling love,
we may take our time,

for a burn resides on the tip of my fingers
but a birthmark, on my shoulderblade.

If this were any faster,
we wouldn’t be calling
ourselves,
each other

caressed.