there is you
and there is
the non-you
beneath the surface
of you is that turmoil
of confusion that
i give up understanding
but on the edge
where you and the non-you
exists is the edge that could be
my playground
where your fountain of joy
bubbles to the surface
and dribbles out
pungent excitement
there is a stamp on
your temptation passport
that hangs around the boundary
like my blurred kiss
that isn't floating before your lips
or under your skin
but on the flesh
and becomes an illegal alien
below your sovereign outpost