It isn’t poetic
or pretty
The curve of your sex
angles away
around corners of conversation
into complexities of sleep deprivation
and time poverties
weary
thread bare insistence
And yes
it
aches
bone deep
interrupting sleep patterns
scattering thoughts to random
A lurid regimes totality
each day
a collection
of tiny self denials
There is no understanding
of imperative for you
It remains
an abstract
inconclusive
and elusive
ignored and deplored as
an inability
to control
And when will we fuck
do you think?
I do not want romance
and soft imprecations tonight
I am not capable of dimming the lights
and massaging my way into your
good graces
The energies arc and flare
setting skin into flame enhanced
dancing nerve
self serving
seductions
I covet
the taste of you
Want is a waste
a cock
turned to stone
personified
the press of rigidity
against averted flesh
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