I like to imagine my neighbors having ***.
Familiar faint squeaks catch my interest while ****
cooks red with my lips at the tip of the **** pipe.
First faint then foot to floor driving the grand prix
while exhaling and pale I stare up at the ceiling.
They're *******. That smooth and dark brown,
long black and kinked hair having, bare hairy
belly in leather jacket wearing strange and
tasty cut of chubbed up muscle overpowering
with his plowing, the the soft plump curves
of her in alabaster white, coif cut long but
both the sides, inside her just so open walls,
pounding deeply in snycopated beating
rhythms, in love or lust, it's left to be wondered.
My favorite balancing act, knee wobbling
daring to throw me from the one legged stance
where I perch with my ear in a glass, glass to asbestos,
living vicariously through them as if it's my sole chance to live,
Claire's mystical 1/8's  blare in the stale air from
the lone speaker on my TV and my breathing flickers.
Huffs to gasping puffs to sighs leading to huffs again,
I can't help that I spend time inside my head. I want it.
I dream of my neighbors *******.
Open. Bent down. *** up. Deleting the question marked
space between faces I make outside and in heat, alone under sheets in a bedroom.
I want to be ******.
**** me. Pound me.
Press me down and wrap your hand around my ribs.
Touching. Taking.