I want to be the salt
you pinch to meals you cook;
to be a complementing taste
you'd always search,
and satiate your hunger.
You will crave for me.
I want to be the salt
that would tingle your tongue
and make you drool.
You'll lick your lips,
savoring every last of me,
then bite it.
But alas, I am a salt.
I will make you hiss and moan.
I want to be your salt,
the taste of your sweat.
Fuck, I love it when your skin
glisten with it.
Let me be your salt,
and I'll let you eat me.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poesia[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
