A mumbled toast
stammered out on wine-breath as we meet at the well --
Rylee's hands, shaking from the dark merlot.
Hand in hand, that holy kiss,
a sacred incantation redeeming the mundane.
Where she's never been I will lead her:
a jester from the pit come to play charades.
Her kissing breath smells of lilies
white as water from the silver basin.
She says she's never bitten from the flame;
As I bite her lips, she tastes the fruit
her zealous anger smacks of divinity.
Through the storm I utter impieties,
dazzling as lightning, those first words of rebellion
anointing her virgin brow with lust.
A thief treading softly cannot startle the waiting,
and there is no shame in her delight,
no fear in her first embrace.
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