Even amongst purple walls
adorned in maudlin posters and prints,
drawings and postcards of exhibitions,
I see your glint in the corner of my room.
Inactive grey body with a head of rubber,
waiting to be powerfully silver,
but innocent, you persist.
You tell me my back is sore again-
and all you wish to do is relieve it.
Persistent innocence.
I'm working on a final essay, and you are knocking,
at my limbs and everywhere but where you want to
really go.
Innocence, you persist.
Dark and threaded to the outlet, you are ready
to apply the pressure needed for tension release.
Mocking, teasing, tempting.
That essay isn't going to do itself,
but I know someone who will.
Writing this ode,
is my act of rebellion against you,
but you know I long for the shaking
the rapture,
the center of my pleasure
encapsulated in your interchangeable
concentration.
But I have to unplug you.
Life is too impatient.