I like your small frame.
I like your pert behind,
The way your shape draws against the paint.
You’re beauty’s kind.
Maybe we can die in the nude. Dine and wind on a tune, sing a rune, binge on each others dunes, lining up intoxicating lines of insatiable lust between us.
A lambada. Dance with me. Relax on me. Weave our fingers tightly together. Your backside to my front porch, you know I’m a torch. Wiggle our waists to the waves of the tune – each rise, each fall, each extended note rhyming with our waists. Dance with me, my lady. Bring our arms straight out in front of us, then bend them, in a smooth transition. Put out my middle fingers, trace two lines a centimeter from each other, down from the tip of your chin, down your throat, down the space between your boobies – I know you like how E amuses – down your belly to your navel, down, down, down. How many downs can you down before you’re down, Lady?
This isn’t writing, lady: I’m telling you what I want to do to you. Let me, and let’s find heaven…together.
