I made out with an older man this weekend.
He had strong hands: tense & quick.
His fingers smelled wonderful. When he ran them across my face I inhaled deeply.
Wet earth & vanilla.
He cupped my face the way you cup a flame in wind.
He pronounced my name each time his mouth brushed against my ears. His voice dense & intimate.
The syllables of my name ran down my neck, like sweat.
He smeared his breath across my torso.
I buried my hands in the small of his back.
The tip of his tongue skipped down the length of my body like a stone over water.
I threw back my head.
He plucked black petals from my open mouth.
UPDATE: I don't consider this a poem. These are lines that I wrote in my head while I made out with an older man this weekend. But thanks for the nice feedback via comment box and email. And his name was Saul.