He pressed his lips and tongue
against soft pink power switches.
Flicking them On and Off.
Until the energy bill was high enough
to pay for a college tuition used
for leaving the rest up to a left hand
not ridden with finger nails filed to perfection.

Sliding a finger down to the ridge in cotton
*******, like testing a mantle for dust,
he ran his fingers repeatedly over the field
fabric causing morning dew to flood the fibers.
Ten tiny dancers, slipped slowly
along the topography of skin.
Like brushing the straw bristles
of an archaic broom over a bare
hardwood floor, his 5 o’clock
shadow itched my flesh
and hair shaved away grew back
in goose bumps and excitement.

Feeling my legs shake, and toes
cringe made him whisper,
I want to *******,
words which have never sounded
more like a plea than a yen.
So when palms slid on sunken
chest and ground pelvis to pelvis,
a mortar and pestle,
tightened muscles like a practiced
fight scene of fencing.

With pursed pressed lips and furrowed
brow, squinted eyes looked down
like a lawyer serving up
divorce papers on a silver
platter, and let him know
This is what you asked for,
So lets not pretend it’s love.