The word slips off your tongue 
as if it has never been said to another, 
but with an assuredness that one could only exude through use.
It drips like the salt water off of a surfer having caught a perfect ride before the waves crash him into the cliffs below me.
Drip drip drip.
It begins to wear.
Baby baby baby.
The way water on stone does.
Softening my edges.
Rounding my hips.
Circling my heart.
Will I?
Can I?
Let this wall crumble, baby,
probably not, baby.
Maybe piece by piece, this old castle on the cliff can be opened again. 
The sweetness on your breath makes it feel like the gates may just begin their downward descent.
Wear me down, Baby.