What a quiet indignity, the boredom of love emulation.
The whispered sweet bedroom nothings,
the romanticism, inundation.
First date, wide eyes, toothy grins,
and a penchant for wine bottles,
and pronouncing French words for sins.

Sloppy romantics get bedded quick,
but a quick witted clever girl gets her pick.
Rub your thumb against their spine, trace
from border to border of "What's mine?"
Chase.
Their sinewy hands and how they grip you.
Slip you off
the,
countertop. And slipped stiller and lower,
oxytocin grower. Just show her the prime.
The three little words that'll drive
that rise in serotonin, bitter pink tongue
clicked behind gritting teeth.

Let her bite you. Let her shed you of your earthly noise.
Let her feed on your supple, your moist, let
the piercings crucify you for now.
Consent, let, and allow.
It's a single night we can do without a fight.
Make breakfast together.