My lips are dry
from all the caffeine, sun,
storytelling loosening muscles
and stretching thin the skin.
They pucker out, curl in, intimate
fasting fosters easy distraction.
When floral lace leggings snag my eye
slobber slung from a dogs jowls
glides against my reaching hands, but I’m unphased.
Transfixed on their presence
this is my weakness; they’re beautiful.
Wallet in hand, I am weak.
Recklessly spending for the smile,
the rush, a drop of dopamine for dinner
strung between cheeks.
Unbeknownst to them, I am
smitten. The sidewalk strut
home is noted by gentle
bumps, the flowery treasure
tapping against my knees.
I lose control of the poetry
and my lower lip bows to teeth.
If only an object could sing it’s story.
Poetry | Journal 
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