lajeunefilleenfleur:

Your mouth is sweet-sharp, like a pomegranate seed; your mouth is a cavern where sweetness blooms and ripens.

Your lips are stained with your sweetness. They take on a brilliant translucence when I’ve been kissing you. Lit from within.

Your tongue is a cut fruit, a section of blood-orange, a revelation.

Your mouth. Your mouth. Your sweet mouth.

I sold a long winter for your pomegranate mouth. For these grains of happiness. I plunged and served my purgatory in the cold belly of the earth—in the dark, dark pit of it—and it was you who sought me again: you with your hair of wheat, of flax, smelling of springtime and deliverance. Of ripening: of harvest.

We are immortal, you and I. I am immortal because you gave me life. Life and liquid light. I drank it from your hands, from your mouth.

You are the bearer of fruit—you are the fruit. You are my salvation.

Ooooooh, god… Jeune, you are trying to kill me. But with the sweetness of flowers and fruit…