The asking of you to see beyond the brown in my eyes.
The search for the blindness in deep kisses.
The indellible servitude to touch you...
And for moans to taste like music.
Scratches to the skin to feel like tasty climaxes.
****** contortions and clenched fists and inter-locked limbs comforting in sweat.
This is what Friday night poems are about
Cigars on ice.