Hand out the window in the heat-soaked Summer.
Your hair a mess like always.
The Jackson Pollock kind of mess I love.
Your smile stings—no, injects me,
full of that sweet syrupy goodness,
that you call true love.
Your skin seemingly melts,
with each wet kiss on your body so svelte.
Your eyes deceptively tease,
urging me to be the one to please.
Your touch surreptitiously ignites,
my deepest desires of the night.
I've heard my fair share of concertos,
yet they sound like a cacophony of sounds,
compared to the symphony of,
cries, moans, and whispers,
that are the product of our lovemaking.
My love for you is like,
the interstate on which we drive.
Down to the last grain.
You can't find where it ends.