She’s a sun-kissed
    Yellow peach—

Strolling on
    Beach Boulevard
with a
    rhythm to
her feet.

Honey in her cheeks,
Tender when she speaks

and
the gloss on her
    lips glisten
like
  polished rubies.

She’s sweet like
Hennessy with cranberry.
      Warm skin
the color of chai tea.

The moon melts
      at the
          sight of
               my muse.

How could one refuse her?


She’s
      Sunday afternoons
listening to the
blues.

Let's talk
       love

under these
           duvet sheets, boy.

You'll see what I
mean.

We'll
     kiss and nibble

on each other's
needs.

        F*ck out our
             wildest fantasies
and forget the pleasantries.

I'll trace my
      nails across

your pink
lips

just as long
     as you tell me,
please.
          
                  Sweet talkin and
my sweet voice

I won't hesitate to
         make you mine, boy.

But we can be
     patient,

          and I can keep
     waiting;

for now, I'll just keep
        laying under these

duvet sheets while you
           push yourself up

against me and 

         kiss my forehead
to sleep.

To love yourself is an art.

Nameless men sketch their fantasies along my hips
admiring me as I were their
                                                           masterpiece.

**** in an antique wooden frame
    that hangs by my throat,
                                                            gagging.

the devil dances with me at night.
he makes love with prose  
and by morning he will not have remembered what he said.

before sunrise,
he falls asleep and i am left with unsaid words.

willingly, ive become his.

you are my escape under the moon
and a deal with the devil has made
        everything all right.

strands of my hair
       tangle around your fingers.
you're pulling on the strings
                    of my mind.

so delicate
with your touch.

        it reminds me of
sunday mornings
making love.