Pleasure
is demise,
pleasure
is a plea,
pleasure
is the last reply
of the day,
pleasure
is
what it isn't.

Because what really happens
when those endorphins
start grinding on the thighs of your veins,
is that you are feeling
pain that makes
the softness of her skin
hurt your lips with happiness.

So this is a poem of love,
didn't start that way,
just like pleasure
begins with bruised
wrists
and dehydrated lips.

The beat
for the party of pleasure
bumps in the heart
timing itself by a melancholy metronome.