Little Lips

With little lips
  that bruise with
 colour
and skin
covered in
         itty-bitty 
   specks,
she walks out
   at night,
teeth as bright
           as the moon,
hands delicate and
     bony,
like drumsticks
      -they beat the side
       of her thigh
       and I can hear
       the music-
She moves in
 a little black dress
(and I'm 
wearing one
too)
 with cheekbones
as cunning
     as the sky 
  around her-
and maybe her freckles
    are the stars
and maybe her ears
    catch the whispers
of a warm wind
and maybe her lips
    are meant to find me
and maybe her hand
    is meant to touch me
and maybe 
     her legs
  are rolls of dough,
slowly cooking,
slowly drying,
slowly taking her
where the tide goes,
        and maybe I'm meant to follow.