Just six—my neck dream-kissed, heated to wake
—hours, A.M: grindless, I am in sheets of sweat,
but languorous—drowsed, wish we’d lay; I shake
at the thought of you, the bitter ere the sweet.
Impress—you do express, more than espresso,
O!—upon me alone, your Self, my lips,
all of you sipped. Quake me, distraught, awake:
obsess—that I do for sweet Ferrero,
you—over those raptured ichor-chocolate drips;
for you, I’ll walk; endure trembles for your sake.
A door, those steps, I wait—allure, amour
at the dark, blunt scent before: ecstasy
awaits. I wait: that line I stake, me poor,
deprived; but Apple Pay brings destiny—
A cup delivers you; a cupid slings,
my head is shot—love blind: down, down you run,
you saturate me, burn me, unmake me;
You radiate the tongue of many things:
heeds, caffeine—I fiend, fiend ere you’re done,
I memorialize: Mocha! ever iced be.
O! the Form entire is we: you (Mocha), me:
You do vein-permeate, pump your sugar,
proliferate the blood sweet, full: coffee.
In vain I try, as do those broken rhymes,
to split, to turn, to twist the twines of Fate;
as to make thou a Muse immortal, Mocha—
I try: the last sip does always sunder.
Another morning, a new day I wait,
amused as to wake for thou, Mocha—
I will, I—Willoughby’s!