Ice Cream

Your love is like ice cream on my tongue,

melting slow, rich with every spoonful,

a dance of sweetness and chill,

soft and giving, yet daring in taste,

teasing the edge of my patience,

making me linger, wanting.

Each touch, a cooling fire,

a spread of flavor I savor deep,

you serve me in scoops,

creamy and dense, inviting the warmth

of my mouth, my breath, my pulse

quickening with every swallow.

The way you linger, unhurried,

against my lips, leaving traces,

a swirl of salted caramel

and dark, hidden notes

that linger long after,

ghosting my taste, my memory.

How you hold me—

steady, unmelting in my hand,

yet yielding, pooling as we grow close,

melting beneath the heat of skin,

dissolving into something deeper

than sugar or salt could name.

When I taste you,

there’s nothing but sensation—

a richness that cannot be contained,

that slips, drips,

down my wrist, leaving trails

of longing, velvet in its passing.

I am greedy for each drop,

drawn to the next taste,

to the way you fill me, satiate me,

then stir a hunger

that could not be sated

by anything but more of you.