I wonder what it would be like
to spend three weeks having sex
with you, multiple times a day.
I'd be slow to warm. You'd
have to suprise me from behind,
in the kitchen, and push through
my giggles and insecure shrugs.
Maybe I lay awake at night
and imagine that your home,
somewhere in Paradise, USA,
amongst flowers and chickens,
is really the fortress to my
long time coming sexual revolution.
Maybe I pretend that I don't always
think about death, or slap my hand
hard against the wall when visions
of those I have lost come prancing
into my afternoon fantasies about you,
as if to guilt me from the act of self
pleasure.
You already know I stand too close,
and rip up napkins in painstaking haste,
the physical manifestation of my frustration
and desire for you.
And know, sir, it was hard to hear you talk about
the future, fisical responsibility, or our
daily tasks, without imaging your pink
lips between my own.
