"falling in love with her scent"

Hers is a winter fruit.

I slip my tongue beneath the gentle flax

to taste her scent.

 

Impregnable, this skin

till a thumb prises open waxy flesh

till fingers seek the catch.

 

I follow indentation, letter, mark.

No spider knows the secret of its mesh

 

philtre d'amour laced on her breath

and her pores

sweat alchemy, perhaps.