In a steady, illiterate static
this room is my study.
And you are my book.
Legs spread 'cross my lap
hands firmly upon my frame.
I lean in to see the words.
Your soft lips graze mine
like branded cattle in a glen.
Wet and cold we sit there.
Then your tongue begins flickering
beguiling like the serpent of Eden.
How could I resist but to bite?
I kiss you sweetly
and you kiss me back.
Minutes pass in the study.
My tongue examines your mouth
like a cartographer mapping a new world.
Each slick and slope is wholly new to me.
Teeth clink like crystal glasses
during a wedding day toast.
Eyes shut tight make the black of mourning.
The noises dribbling from our mouths sound akin
to a murderer tromping through the forest mud.
Shovel dragging hard. ...Plop...Plop...Plop...
Our hands run over each other's bodies
open-palmed like a child examining the globe.
I want to feel you from pole to pole.
I pull back and run my fingers through your hair.
Your color is rushed with red and you wipe saliva from your lips.
Your smile is without flaws, and you taste like ambrosia.
I love being literate.