I raised the thermostat in my bedroom so you’d lose your last layers.
It’s a cheap trick, but I cannot stop the lust we’ve brought into this place.
It’s not love, no no, it’s not the sweet slow tune that stretches towards forever
we’re the rushed murky club bass that leaves you deaf and blind
but I won’t say dumb, because at least we used protection.

It’s been a lifetime since I pinned a woman to my canvas
and painted a series of moans and gasps across my bed
gentle strokes down her thighs
building color in her chest
mesmerizing forms and shapes created by her body on mine.
this is an art form I’d forgotten needs no practice
deserving of its own spot atop the Sistine Chapel.

At dawn, when we both list and drift towards the door,
there is no lingering last look, no awkward pause.  
We’ve both given up on the idea of a truly immortal feeling
preferring instead that sensational build to a beautiful ******
and a gallery of gorgeous midnight memories.