It provokes her tongue; it wants to lick her lips, to slither about inside her mouth, nuzzling her cheeks in circles and lightly stroking the backs of her teeth. A sweet breath tingles her taste buds, like a piece of minty, fresh spearmint gum. It flickers with excitement, enticing her more and more with each elapsing second...

She is hungry and she can not quench her thirst. Hungry with fear, haunted by emotion, all swelling in her stomach. She needs more, but it’s just beyond her reach. Instead of pure air to stroke her lips, she wishes for something else; it’s as if she’s too pure for purity's sake and needs a less finer finest. It must be something soft and smooth and silky, the richest kind of feeling that does not overbear. The smooth, cold glass that cradles the sweet aroma of lemon and sugar taints her need, but it is not enough. Its cooling sensation quickly dulls and only makes her tongue crave more. Perhaps the touch of sparkling lace, sheer as it paints her smile. Maybe this will strike down her lips’ unquenchable question. “May I have some more?” they whisper.

Twitching with anticipation, they strive to be polite, but now with a renewed and glossy enthusiasm they draw closer to what they wish for. Her lips stutter and her tongue winks, trying to hide their zealous pleasure in playing the winning hand. They shine just like the lucky dice of a gambler; they fill the room, bright red and puckered, upon every lady with with a move to make. Laughter rolls from her tongue, splitting the air and arousing those beside her. Up and down each syllable strums, a melding conversation. They lean closer now, two pairs of them restless to become one. A touch for a touch; a stroke for a stroke; and a much needed kiss for a kiss...

She resolves that her tongue has finally met its match; lips part and circles are made upon cheeks and teeth that are not her own. Once their work is done, tongues part ways in shame and lips are licked again. Only then does the question swell once more. “Was it enough?” they whisper to her tongue.

At least it gives an honest answer back: “No.” That single word echos and the lust begins again. It was only enough to still such harsh physical lust for a moment, but not to destroy the true desire. You cannot cure her pair of lips or her slithering tongue. They ail too much from thoughtless need, not heeding their own roughness. The true drink for every mouth that thirsts lingers upon her tongue. The laughter that rolls off wistfully, leading to her voice. Every word her lips utter, an everlasting chord in a song, and every syllable stressed, the tongue’s harmony to pull letters through.


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741