too face(d)

I have days where I wonder if you read my poetry;
if the lines that grace your eyes and crease my forehead
mystify you equally with their roots and future intentions,
but I wrote about you in past tense before I ever met you.

You smeared your tongue sloppily
like an emollient on my cheekbones,
but the acerbic nature of your calcified karst topography
grates at the edges of my being

and makes me wonder about your purpose in God's plan
as if I am privy to plans from a higher Being.

We had moments where I traced
the arch of your nose gently with my lips
leading downwards in a spiral like figurative imagery,
but I have found that pulse beating so gently in your jugular
is too weak to sustain me.