that’s how close we are, that intermittently
I can feel the imprint of the orange on and beneath your shirt
and the citrus tang of your effortless work
around and around your stomach and my nose

(I secretly long to say tummy
to draw your giggles to my shoulders and my thumbs to your side
feel you breathe, my pressed palms wide
as your goosebumps subtitle your stop and your go)

but your dimpled curves flush me shy to my core
and knowing your shape we never could compare
so, rocking my hips to the roll of your [chuckles]
I faithfully remain your fruitless friend ‘N’.


cunting christ, take 2

seven I had in the first hour alone
and the mouth of another but briefly as well
yet nothing compares to the drug in her airs
the delicate rise of her swell.

the wave and the tangle that covered her collar
that hid all the treasure of temptation there
I so longed to smooth it that quickly I moved it
and slowly grew drunk on the smell of her hair.

and except that it’s hers and the fingers are mine
there’s nothing much special there, all firm and cool
and I’ve tiny wet lips on my tiny hand tips
spelling kisses across her, a true fleshsick fool.