That Which Returns to Wander

I could construe it to you
like cinnamon and apple and whiskey,
that which returns
to wander like liquefied ecstasy
beneath the velvet barbs of your tongue.

Would it appeal, then,
to word it like heavenly hypocrisy,
hoarse with my righteous scream of
that which wanders
to return to the pedestal called judgement,
called mercy  —
whatever my lips care to puppet-spill now.

And if I said it were a vice,
not a transgression unto yourself,
would it whisper sweeter still:
that which strides
to suck what they called rot out of you,
to feed you your own spit, the regurgitated gasp of giving in?

(It trails down your chest
and buries in your bloodstream
like cinnamon and apple and whiskey,
that which returns to wander to wander to return to walk, to slither back to you, darling,
where we drink, we feed, we feast.)