Here's the thing,
I already know you.
Your face is dark but
beautiful. The finest flesh
etched in human by a
master. I already know
the contours of your shape,
the lines that define you.
Here's the thing,
I already know you. But
my toes are boring, I
think they might be
painted white but it
doesn't matter because the
flexing pathway of my legs
leads only higher and higher
to the hills, circles and
flares on these hips burst
but are easy for your
beautiful hands to clasp
close as you rocket them
away.
Follow my lines, curves, in and
out, out, in and out.
They sweep up and away,
dark hands skim and
stutter over glowing skin.
Wrinkles and pulses create
waves, waves and waves of
ecstasy murmur, clamoring and
clashing against brutal rhythm.
This discrepant composition
should be the creation of
some rogue designer, but I
hold the brush as you seize
my hips.
These lips form the shapes
that my hands find impossible
while my head falls on the
cool side of the pillow to
subside these relentless
thoughts.
But here's the thing,
I already know you.
And the sun seeping
through the weak fibers
of your curtains, draped like
spooning limbs, is
cracking, splintering
exposing the deep darkness
that illuminates my body.
All that exists in the vibrancy
of the dawn is me knowing
that I should have walked out
the first time you told me
you loved me and my boring
toes that do leave before you
turn your beautiful face
to the light.