passing the marble

A poem I wrote a bit ago, just finally recording it here. "Holding the marble" refers to a story from The Story Girl about the origins of kissing. In this case, I'm thinking of the sensation of holding in words, but passing the sense of them in the kiss.
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The last lingering kiss goodbye,
My palms ache to store the feel of
Muscled back,
Hair on chest,
Smooth curve of buttock.

Your hair is an amber wave
Of sunshine and I turn my face to its warmth.

Our lips touch again, softly once,
Then more insistent, bodies
Obeying their own siren calls
We meld into an
Arc of last longing.

The moments we spend between desire
Staring into each others' eyes are the hardest.
This marble belongs to you, love,
Come let me pass it to you.
We should not speak, lest it
Drop and shatter
Everything.

The flesh is not so weak

Ironic really, how only when
My heart is coiled in agony throes
Only when my lips bleed can I
Kiss my muse's feet with love.

This is not agony, though, this
Is manufactured parallel joy and
Angst, oh hell, yes
Because where would a poetess be
Without angst?

This is the very moment of balancing on the ridgepole
This is walking along the mountain's cliff edge, and
Feeling the exhilaration of gravity's pull.

Let us entwine today, lover,
And grapple with these tender needs
Let me salve your soul and wash your feet and
Take all of you into my mouth
And together we can cry to the dawn that she's
Come too soon, again!

And your heart beats in a thousand pockets, and
Mine on a battered tweed sleeve, but
That is not our worry, my love.
Wrap yourself around me and turn up the bass.