I long to feel your childish, unseductive touch.

The feeling of your disinterest in a state of arousal is that of a crime scene.
You investigate me with cold, unfeeling eyes
and your hands are all the worse.

The music you insist on playing is unsensual
and distracting
but you say it gives you something to do
while you’re ******* me.

Your youthful face does not even contort in pleasure,
my name never passes your lips,
yet I need more of you.

I try not to finish in your allotted time period
so I can keep you close
for as long as possible.

But your lack of eroticism gets to me
and I explode.
You dress and leave
without so much as a “good-bye.”

Maybe next time you will smile.