There is longing where your ankles meet. In the flex of your chin and around the swirls in your ear. Dug your tongue deep into longing, never belonging to palpitation. Pulse like passionfruit pulp in a tall glass of sweaty palms. One kiss for your sweet memory. The sting of hyperreality on your tongue. Lips make stains on desperate, warm necks. And you are walking still with the color of my touch.