a country boy and a city girl

They say there are some
who are born with a silver spoon in my mouth.

I grew up with platinum-plated teeth,
dreaming about grandeur
and breaking down your amino acids
in the same way I catch your ear between my lips;

nibbling softly on the edges of redemption
coyly just in case you listen too closely
and you can hear my enamel
chipping away at your moral standards.

I love the way my mouth can lock to your neck
when we're gazing at harvest blue moons so stoic
I can see your reflection in the skies
where God painted the feeling we have
when we gaze at each other.

I can feel the skepticism etched
in the grooves of your callused hands,
but I am proud to love them anyways;
those digits tempered by blue-collar labor
raised deep in the soul of Texas
blessing my eyelashes with your butterfly kisses.
I wonder if we can catch the etymology
of our entomological makeouts,
because I will continue to rest my eyelids
next to the sparkle of your old worn out navy irises.