I want a man that reads with blue pen,
ink blots a page like he unbuttons my blouse
slow breathy traces from knot to knot
fingers passing every imperfect freckle that dots
his eyes to my skin. Then pause.
I want him to read closely
the blooming scents that escape
my sighs – first quick and salty
anticipating a touch flirtation at my
inner thigh, then a rub, no,
a well placed grasp. I want
him to know when to squeeze
throw down my hair and pace
the heaving contours that flow
more passionately than the Baltic Sea.
Then I want to make waves
make him crash and sway into me
deep until the sheets seem to float
above us and then drop to drape like flags
pull under me once again reading
my gaping breaths now heavy
like a volcanoes peak, tasting the raspberry
magma of my tongue. I want a man
to study the life lines of my erosion,
know where they crack and ache
and split into new directions.
I want a man to know
the geography of my desire.