Give me time to be intimate.
******, myself deep into your thoughts.
Slow grind on your opinions.
Let my tongue pour into your pores.
Nibble on your ear
Light breaths caress your canals.
Euphoric exclamations, you moan.
I press on your frame
Hardening myself to your disagreement
Because bruises only remind you of past occasions
You moisten my hands with your SELF-worth
I fill you with my SELF-esteem.
Pulling on the dreams flowing from your head.
You cringe, nails hanging of the cliffs of my skin
limbs stiffen around our future.
You pull me close
I hear you whispers
While you think them.
You want to avoid
Submitting under,
Moans become muffled
Locked in by your teeth
Biting your lip.

Can we exchange dialogue
from master scripts too ten minute plays?
Inhaling every exhale from your line breaks
Prefixes soothing my ear drums
intellect holding  suffixes.
Allowing your stories to take me too worlds
literature can’t reach.
Where archetypes are dynamic
antagonists don’t exist
and you’re the only character not flat.
Stasis starts situations
When you’re the intrusion
I follow all stage directions
put me inside your prepositions,
cover  me in your verbs
let me hold  your nouns
lay my head on your adverbs
and fall asleep to your adjectives.

Playing for the game’s affection
working hard isn’t an option
but instead a pleasure.
bring the NFL to any strip
of grass long enough to run on.
all we needed was a ball.

It could have stayed like that.
But the older we got the less
That ball mattered.
The block was no longer a part
Of the game it had be come
A part of life.

Traded in the grass
For concrete escape routes.
The ball got sold or smoked away.
After all of that I still tried to play.

I never wanted to give it up.
The rest of them had no choice,
With every year that passed
One more stopped playing.
I made it the longest
All four years of highschool

Porkchops
Waiting in the living room
laid across the leather couch.
I could smell the flour from the kitchen.
Infused with garlic powder, pepper, old bay
the right amount of paprika.
Watching her coat them, gentle like
baby powder during a  changing.
The grease sizzles like tap dancers across
marble floors.
Watch the delicate flip, she’s rougher
when she rubs my nose.
Sounds then become single
Raindrops hitting a metal roof.
The meat rises to the top of the pan
They are cooked.

I'd love
to hold you
with conversation.