I empty my mind in you
I whisper my sorrow in your ear,
make you think it's poetry

Written words in pain yet plain
You would like to know but no
In protest with truth you are
You accept lies from others,
put them in your gigantic mason jar

I can't condone myself
for the things I said
But emotions don't hang well with me
Yet you still want more of my sensuality

Lusting without trust
No feelings here that are similar to love
But still, you stay and worship me at night
You want to get inside my head
I don't like that idea let's just go to bed

All those homilies are works of comedy;
the only sounds you'll need to hear are my moans and plea, praying for you to take me.
I would need no altar to make you kneel,
the sight of my bare back alone would send those sinful lips of yours into overkill.
And, please, put that bible away,
we'll have the best erotica written by the time this night is over anyway,
or perhaps until the sun becomes astray from the unforgiving light and day.
So come on now, your able hands
would make the saints envious
with all the unkind things you'll do to my equally unkind body,
Bring it on, your cunning tongue
could make even a skeptic curious
even the angels would be stripped off
their grace and glory.
Forget about your god when all he ever do
is make you bleed, cry and beg,
you know the only place you'll ever find eternal salvation is between my legs.

Your hot breath and hands against my neck,
amen.

My favorite poem
is your hands on my neck.
If you need my lips all over you,
I'll deliver and keep it in check.
What about you?
You see I don't write love poems on paper,
I write them on the sheets.
You know my mouth and my tongue
are your new favorite sweets.
Enough of these rhymes,
we are just wasting time.
Just show me where your bedroom is,
and tell me how much you want me.
And I'll show you what you've been missing,
and it's heaven when you're deep inside me.
What about you?
What is your favorite poem?
I hope it's your hands on my neck.

But that night has beaten every bet, every win of a year's worth of games in Lisbonㅡ we both knew we've lost as reality went all in and we only had nothing but our dreams and art to gamble while the stakes were high.

And did we cruise along those rather soulless waters of Barcelona down to Málaga only to jump recklessly, drown and pull each other down trenches of more questions; our oxygen, our rescue being each other's whereabouts for the next few months?

Battered and almost breathless, I crawl my way farther up north alone. Don't fret for I wouldn't let Budapest thwart me one bit,
at least not the way you did.
The streets may be enthralling in every way, yes, but I would never take any photos in it, and that's a promise.

As we bid goodbyes and succumb to the perpetual agony brought about by the distance between our worn-out souls, the world shall be left helpless with no other choice than to weep with the howling of the new aurora sky.

A time from now, we'll put the French Riviera to shame
with the spellbinding travesty
of our *******;  

The stars that grazes the Monte Carlo sky must realize that they've never even really shined once they witness how my eyes will glisten with rapture as you taste me for the very first time.

Oh, we'll hush the musicians of Vienna with the rhythm of our moans, the terrifying yet invigorating song of your gruff voice begging for more.

As we succumb to each other's biddings, the world shall be left helpless with no other choice than to watch.