How do you want to be seen and
how do you see yourself at thirty-aught?
I want to throw dice onto your bare, ivory stomach to
see how you roll.

The thought of setting eyes upon you again
fills me with want
and a rush of blood to the extremities,
a tonic for my
one
track
mind.

There is more honesty in raw overtures than polished ones.
How much time is spent dancing
around the crux of
the primal
matter?

I could, of course, weave silken words
and say
that 'I dream of you darling, a vision
wrapped in satin at the edge of the shore,
your silhouette drawing me toward infinity.'

The reality is that I want to fold you like origami
into a naked paper swan
for an anarchic acrobatic copulation,
a river of salt and sweat.

To kneel before your body in the boundless depth of woman
a servant and master
ably tasked with administering animal pleasures
until your eyes are blind,
your limbs uncontrollably shake,
and all resistance to the moment and self-awareness
dissolve.

And in the resultant silence
as the room swirls back into view
you offer up a breathless
and almost imperceptible
"Thank you...


...thank you,



thank you."