Soft as silt,
white porcelain
rouge flesh
left gasping
as a fool
lunges in.

Thrusts of urgent
lust that pleads
for this man
to plant his seed
and leave
for far more
amusing things;

But she
was promised poetry,
words worked
like Woodsworth’s
cloudy day,
such sweet
romantic decrees,
of stars exploding
and imploding
of space growing
and passion
that spans eternity.

So, what the ****?
She is out of luck
as he *** and goes
before she even knows
to be disappointed.