promise

I want to feel your skin so badly.
I want it like green grass,
like fresh blueberries,
like mother’s crock-pot dinner.

I want your lips on my lips,
and my hips moving
to a radio skipping
while never noticing
passing sirens.

And though they say
sparks will wane inevitably,
I will always carry flint,
and I will make flames,
and I will write love poems,
and I most certainly will not
forget
how it feels to be
in love.