Hypokeimenon Poem by Sebastian Priotese

I look at the moon
and I see your back
arched like a cello string
broken in staccato.
The smell of coldness,
this inferno of menthol,
makes me believe that you never
stopped kissing me or I never left your mouth
and you chew me ceaselessly.
My skin grows under your nails.
Your kisses as rich as funeral wreaths
grow from my lips like skeletal gardenias
and sequoias of lipstick and gloss.
Your body had become a magma fantasy
and your mouth every incubus's wet dream,
an oppressive cavern of succulent meat
that did not shy away from consumption.
Art is never left unfinished.