Hunger and pulse
on your inner-seams.
old code.
lips, maybe.
maybe not.
Taste and kisses
on your inner-seams.
Tongue and
no goodbye left in it.
Something held
too long.
Perspex lungs.
green hum
under ribs.
Not frequency.
absinthe daemon
uncoiling.
wormwood
opening the door.
Inward.
Flood.
Skin—thin membrane
over storm.
No tease now.
only pressure.
two bodies
misfitting one skin.
Too much.
Too fast.
Too certain.
Tongue.
pink.
no distance in it.
I come apart
grinning.
daemon rising.
hunger wearing
my face.
Same thing.
I retreat.
crawl back.
salted,
starving.
Weight
is a metal tang
at the root of the tongue.
I am not the lover.
I am the leather
stretched over the frame,
the salt-slicked
seat of the spine.
Your heat
presses into the cavity
where the breath
used to be.
Mouth
is an arch of bone
and ancient
addiction.
It finds the shape
of your arrival
and grafts to it.
I do not release.
I become
the floor
of your gravity.
Pulse
on your inner-seams.
not goodbye.
Lock turning
inside the door.
-UpsilonA 
Oh how I love this one! Just enough restraint ~~
That version of events feels very promising. It left me smiling, so it definitely works.