Seventh Sense

You watch her lips move as she speaks

They hold you spellbound as you sneak

Furtive looks at them, timd and meek,

In case you make her conscious and they cease.

Those lips, they line her mouth so fine,

They curl and pirouette like a dancer divine,

Like heavenly objects do they shine,

And like a famished emaciated man do you pine.

They lie in repose as she is in thought,

Not pursed or pressed in a line, just soft,

Sometimes, they reach out to nibble on a spot,

On her nails when she is particularly wrought.

There are times when they twitch and dance,

When she is playfully throwing you a glance,

The twinkle in her eye you can catch by chance,

But the dimple in her cheeks will surely advance,

As her lips curve upwards with her eyes arching askance.

The times she is worried, her lips are pursed and tight,

Pressed tightly in anxiety and worry they might,

reflect her eyes which are already cloudy in their plight,

As the storms calm and the eyes go clear and white,

Those lips relax and soften reflecting the eyes' light.

The lips quiver like a frightened fawn as she is hurt,

They open as she inhales deeply to slake the thirst,

Caused by the blaze of the fires deep in her heart,

They alternately pinch and purse as her eyes blurt,

That she is weeping, sobbing inside and needs comfort.

The lips of hers when she is a-teasing,

They dart and curve in mischevious abandon amazing,

Their playfulness matched by her eyes inviting,

Not checked by any mores or restraints holding,

She makes her own rules, her lips obeying.

Those lips, they make up the boundaries of your universe. 

They are a part that makes you whole, your seventh sense.