When the droplet falls from the faucet
How many ripples does it create?
How many arms do I have underwater?
Are they enough with which to swim?
With the velvet glove
Of your voice.
Each fleshy morsel:
Raised hips, raking nails,
Am I to be consolation,
Or is it that you are mine?
To keep saying “I love you”
Hoping that it won’t grow stale