Philtrum

A meticulous tickle

on soft supple skin

Cold winter rain

turns each strand of hair

into a crystal stalactite

that melts so gently

into my heated whispers.

But time dictates

that with time things change.

on my philtrum.

Commissioned by mudimba. A poem, in the style of the movie Before Sunrise, using a randomly chosen word. The word was "philtrum." I have no idea, as a lady, what it's like to have a mustache but I just imagine it's a bitch in cold weather.