Kissing the Rise of Your Throat

From a time when I was dating a musician

I want to kiss that rise on your throat.

The pronounced larynx that creates your voice,

so rough and disparate, like a ride on a cobblestone street

in Munich, Geneva, Kitzbuhel.

You drop your songs like pennies on a soaking wet sidewalk,

doused in the perfect kind of rain --

The kind that I hope for on a Sunday afternoon,

in bed with you,

tangled in crisp sheets,

exploring you like a complicated song.