Nebula Lips

That Thing You Do

I want your ashen tongue to crumble

on my lips after you smoke,

mix with my saliva. When we swing

dance & twirl toward each other,

don’t stop spinning; dizzy. After you smoke,

spit out the gum your chewing

into my mouth. Come

back from a cigarette, hang on

my clothes like the smoke in my mouth.

My mouth a cauldron for our spell:

Saliva, ash, chewed gum, your smoky

lungs. Breathe, breathe, mix, swallow,

wait. Don’t bite

my finger before getting to know them; feel them

rub the last part of your hand as you dance away

from me to go smoke. Ask me to follow, to finish

the spell. You chant with each drag,

remove clothing, burn it

on your cigarette. Your skin is night

black. I want to kiss constellations

onto your chest, trail

my dark lipstick lips, the shade

of the Engraved Hourglass Nebula;

two, red space-dust rings interlocking––

space bodies tied forever

like my tongue around your collar bones.

You bewitch marks were I touch you

on my own body that can be washed away––

so we can re-stain each other

differently every night we make stars

on our smoky skins, in our ember mouths.