I like that sweet little hothouse mouth you have. I like to kiss you with tongue, with gusto, with socks still on. … I’ll keep coming back. Maddened. A little hopeless. Embarrassingly in love. And that’s why I’m on the couch kissing pictures on my phone instead of calling you in from the kitchen where you are undoubtedly making dinner too spicy, but when you hold the spoon to my lips and ask if it’s ready I’ll say it is, always, but never, there is never enough.