The edges of me have rubbed away ...
All my corners, all my angles,
Acute and obtuse alike.
Clouds have more harshness,
Satin, wickeder barbs.
My eyes throw no daggers.
My tongue holds no sting.
Come to me, my love,
While I am like you.
Soft, so soft, your lips against mine. I am grazed by their grace and drunk on their wine. We touch and we taste, endlessly divine engrossed...