I find the idea of you quite ticklish
like woolen mittens, itchy wrists
a poke, a ****
a reminder tireless.

I find simplicity to be at fault
for fiddling fantasies, like bad dreams
dizzy and liquified
not so, as it seems.

And through months of fleshly illness, in denial of feminine prowess,
I was held under a rock
by a love so callused:

I was smitten in the smog of your smile.