Water to Me

I come/offering
tea when she offers water
ever taking notice of her lips
molded to the cup
I want to kiss her.

I win her over with a foaming
matcha she has never tasted
such a gentle sweet/blow into the lid
I am going to kiss her.

I do not count the kiss
I finally get the courage
to meekly plant
when I learn she does not do morning breath
I am mortified/she chuckles
offers me a cup of water on her way to the kitchen

I am so thirsty/the kind where I gulp
three glasses of water then a juice
tea/nothing quenches/staring,
her lips slick after a sip of water
ice I imagine sliding behind her front teeth
there is an oval of pink where the top/bottom meet
a tiny pool/the perfect size for a dip

she smiles down my body
finger over my nipple
playful and finally, we kiss,
my tongue, as I drink,
freezing to hers.

Aliyah Curry is a Southern bred writer, focusing on Black female sexuality and mental health. When she is not writing poetry and short stories, she makes film, theater, and photographs, travels, and has dance parties with her niece. Her words can be found in Port City Review, Permission to Write, Cathexis Northwest Press, forthcoming in Call + Response Journal. Keep up with her and their daughters at https://theirdaughters.productions/