Mechanics of Love

My lady, it is sour,
Our milk from past years,
Refrigerated by the cool breath,
Of love's living spirit

I sucked with swollen lips,
Flesh of ripened fruits,
From brilliantly dark forests,
Of selfless emotion

Our piston pumped,
Aided by lust's combustion,
And the fluid softness,
Of never healing wounds

Now, cold rain-drops fall,
From blood-soaked ashes,
Of burning hearts,...ours,
Yet...., still not wet.