The Honey Trap — to be or not.

Insect life. Powys

Butterscotch Burnt Sugar sweet,

Nestled in your cinnamon armpit,

I pat my loneliness into wax — a waxing moon now settling on my ruche.

Skin on skin, you look like thyme -

I see you seep red heather into a creamy solid and hum with happiness.

I am the Queen.