She used to hum

She used to hum
when I guessed correct
(a song, an unknown
destination), a two-note measure
with a slight crescendo,
her smile a pressed leaf.

She used to breathe
a nectar breeze,
and sometimes a gust
of vodka and vomit,
like the moment before
she stumbled onto my lips
for our long-delayed
first bilious kiss.

She used to quake
my skin with her fingertips,
run them smooth along my neck,
or push her nails to enter,
puncture my back
to draw a red retribution.

She used to leave
pink imprints
on her Friday night glasses,
which I’d notice, but still
allow my lips to cover,
allow my tongue to swim
in crayon-waxy wine.

She used to whisper
my name into my ear,
and I couldn’t help but shiver.