fuck

and this is different.
or not.
fuck.
you should push me,
grab me, bite me,
break me, pry me
open along the bed,
kiss me, stroke me,
hold me
together,
still. i keep expecting
something, as if the world
should have shattered,
i should have cried,
whether from complication,
fear or embarrassment, i am not sure.
yet this is normal, almost,
for i am still faintly left
with the rocking sensation
of your inhabitance of my body,
the beat of my heart in knowledge
of the act, the churn of my mind
in remembrance.
fuck.
you should push me,
grab me, bite me,
break me, pry me
open along the bed,
kiss me, stroke me,
hold me
together,
still.
for i do not feel to have lost
myself yet.

believe

and this time i believe you
as i inhale deeply, the scent of arousal
still clinging to my fingers, my body
awash with the small thrill of the moment,
your lips on my neck, your fingers
in my hair as we each breath raggedly together.
it's in the omission that it breaks me open,
the whisper in your voice as i run my tongue
along the side of your neck,
press my breasts down against your chest
and feel your hands solid
along the base of my spine
while i resist the urge to hold back
from allowing you to fuck me.
and you, along with the rest of my world,
will probably read this,
maybe as confession, a love poem,
a lie, the truth behind the curve of the computer screen,
but even at this point i find i have very little
to be afraid of by now,
not the lines of my body, the arc of my heart
and the span of my desire in relation
to my body and my mind and you.
for we've already reached the tipping point of resolution.
and i have been left with nothing to fear
by tomorrow.