Red

There is nothing discreet about this love -
it hangs on my chest,
a defiant noise -
the scent of something luscious
and viscous
stretched between your hips.
Your back arches
in a way only Psyche can feel.
You wear it
in a cheap red dress
that comes apart like midsummer
in my hands
as we flaunt the stars,
the stones under our skin
stretching the bed frame
till we crack.
And I fill you up,
your arms a battle
raging in the waning lies
of morning.