David Estringel

Blood Honey

Pulled 
into breath,
lingering 
and damp
under nostrils’ slow 
b   u   r   n,
wet tips of tongues
melt,
dart,
and slide
into syrupy tangles,
furious 
with hot spit and
exhales, sweet as
red pomegranate.
Your little gasps
(my little deaths)
fire 
cutting teeth
and hungry lips,
drawing us 
in,
spitting us
out—
blood honey in a syringe—
into the heavenly hell 
of this hypodermic love—the sugar 
in my veins.

***

Originally published at Fugitives & Futurists