you are like white wine,
with salmon and tartar sauce on the side.
your tongue is so warm,
you’re so sweet.
two big globes look at me and kiss me
with pupils dilated,
and are blue like the ocean.
so you take my hand on the train,
and pull me into your chest to sleep.
you are strong, stable with a lottery winning smile,
and nice hands.
hold me tight while i sleep,
whisper sweet somethings in my ear,
and tell me you think i’m so pretty.
well, i think you’re an angel,
i think you’re a jewel.
it used to be healing,
playing with yourself should make you feel sexy.
touching yourself should give you an afterglow
as daunting as a ghost.
it's all about the dreams you have
that gets you going to an orgasm.
it's all about the way you groove that
keeps you going even more.
now, this feels like murder -- unsatisfying
and government earning;
ungrateful for the pleasure it used to give.