random thoughts
When she had touched
all that I knew
I wrote her a poem,
something new to touch.
The cup is half empty.
She most likely thinks
I'm a slob and an ass
The cup is half full.
She calls me a poet
and drinks pink champagne
in the bubble bath I made her
I have not written
by the promise
of a letter to a
one-night stand.
I write to say...
i am dull insomniac,
numb to words,
writhing thinking
in unconscious lust.
Zigzagged,
diverted
from lover's coma to
mystery lips
hot wet wanting
old made new again..
that sinful sweat
forms on her Lips,
soaks the words
I succumb to
your pungent imagery.
Your wetness.
Your nonchalance.
Your flesh
as mouth
and tutor
