its becoming difficult - i want to say
i don't feel, because it would be good
to say i don't feel
because feeling is bad, feeling creeps
along the inside, it arouses, it
disappoints, it moves over distances
so large that it itself does not
comprehend the form that it takes
when it flies across miles of ocean
never once looking down but
still changing shape and form. it
lands streamlined in your lap, next
to, or on the massive hard on
and it becomes something else
something gentler, sweeter, nicer
losing its edge somewhere along the
way, it lands quietly, almost waiting
not to be noticed, wrapped around
the penis, in a strong gentle hold
and then it moves...
it takes a touch, a word, a moment
a smile - even the wrong one, for it
to collapse into a puddle of its own
without waiting for you to reach there.
without waiting for itself to
form into
feeling
this is just sex, we know it, but
tell the senses in the body that. tell
the reception in the nerve
endings to say - yes, madam, your
lonely room is ready, and not - come, wait
push, move, shift, on your knees.
come..
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