I peeled off her clothes like
the wrapper of a 100 Grand Bar
after a paleo diet
but still with the
tenderness
of critiquing a friend's
favorite song.

They floated to the floor like a
lost slip of paper
you wrote a phone number on

impacting with grace
inaudible over my
7-A.M.-residential-construction hammering heart.

Her figure was statuesque
in its rare elements of beauty,
and she felt right on my tongue
like the first time I tasted authentic
vanilla ice cream.

But she'd prefer gilato
and I'll have whatever she's having
so I hope I'm having nothing.