Where did you sleep last night?

[hestavi]

Between the sheets there is a scent of a different love.
Soft lip and molten tongue. You caress my ample waist
without a grimace. Kiss with misplaced passion
and mint breath, perhaps to fog a memory of a lover?
You fold linen and launder clothes with the zeal
of a bribing child. I wonder if this love will ever slither
out of its cellophane skin. You scurry in the kitchen
and lather eggs onto a plate, yellow and unctuous.
Yesterday’s dinner sits cold on the counter.


The lines between your relentless texts sidle
into confessions.  Words gather like foam
over tepid coffee.

Inside this mirage, love is nourished by illusion
and buries the question for a different day.

[rowens]

Between the sheets there is a scent of a different love.

No reason to change the opening line
a of a 

Soft lip and molten tongue. You caress my ample waist

molten and ample?


without a grimace. Kiss with misplaced passion


grimace goes over . 

I mean it goes far below and far above



and mint breath, perhaps to fog a memory of a lover?



mint works,      fog is too strong with memory here


You fold linen and launder clothes with the zeal
of a bribing child. I wonder if this love will ever slither
out of its cellophane skin. You scurry in the kitchen
and lather eggs onto a plate, yellow and unctuous.
Yesterday’s dinner sits cold on the counter.


The words in these lines are like earthworms on the ground under people talking about things, paying no attention to earthworms


The lines between your relentless texts sidle
into confessions.  

That makes more literal sense than the poetic sense of this poem


Words gather like foam
over tepid coffee.


They do? 

Inside this mirage, love is nourished by illusion

I can see that


and buries the question for a different day.

Think about what that means: a question is buried for the sake of another day

[TranquillityBase]

Between the sheets there is a scent of a different love.
Soft lip and molten tongue. You caress my ample waist    lips?
without a grimace. Kiss with misplaced passion
and mint breath, perhaps to fog a memory of a lover?  

You fold linen and launder clothes with the zeal
of a bribing child. You scurry in the kitchen 
and lather eggs onto a plate, yellow and unctuous. 
Yesterday’s dinner sits cold on the counter.

The lines between your relentless texts sidle 
into confessions.  Words gather like foam
over tepid coffee. I wonder if this love will ever slither
out of its cellophane skin?

This mirage buries the question for a different day.

Welcome Hestavi,

I mostly played around with changing your line order/line breaks a bit and suggested cuts that would make the poem more directed, at least for me.  All of course is just my opinion.  

TqB

[Pike]

Hello,

I really like this one. Lines like "You scurry in the kitchen and lather eggs onto a plate, yellow and unctuous. Yesterday’s dinner sits cold on the counter." And "Words gather like foam over tepid coffee." And etc. are very amusing and interesting. However, it's a bit too staccato. The individual lines seem to work, but there's no real melody (despite there being a theme). 
Also, a lot of the word choices sound a little artificial (especially the amount of prepositions). Did you use any experimental methods, such as cut-up or AI Interpretive Selection? They tend to favor the preposition. 

I would think about rearranging it a bit, doing a better job with line breaks, and adding some flow or rhythm—but it's so jarring I can't help really liking it. So take all that criticism with a pinch of salt.

[carahmellow]

Between the sheets there is a scent of a different love.
Soft lip and molten tongue. You caress my ample waist  (remove the period... Soft lips and a molten tongue caress my ample wasit without a grimace.) 
without a grimace. Kiss with misplaced passion
and mint breath, perhaps to fog a memory of a lover?
You fold linen and launder clothes with the zeal
of a bribing child. I wonder if this love will ever slither (love this line about cellophane skin... unique)
out of its cellophane skin. You scurry in the kitchen
and lather eggs onto a plate, yellow and unctuous.
Yesterday’s dinner sits cold on the counter.

Great poem over all. I think its really encapsulates what you are going for well. I do think adding some line breaks could help flow.