I don’t want to talk about how
rare you are – how you’re far too grand,
far too human.
I want to talk about the tempest you’ve
conjured between my thighs that
stings as much as any abrasion on
the skin when you’re absent.
How you whittle me away into
a convex shape with one gesture.
Let’s pretend for a second that
this is not tenuous; that
we’re not like the rocks that sit
in their own erosion by the shore.
Let’s pretend that the yearning
I feel when I’m underneath you
won’t amount to anything. That we
won’t grow tired. That we won’t
get lost in the fucking.