"This is sex," I think
"No this isn't," you tell me
And you're right
We are poetry in motion
But I don't think that's what you meant
And once again I am finding meaning where there is none
My eyes are honeyed topaz
And yours are a simmering jasper
I'm writing love letters whilst you fuck me
And you're reading them in a different tongue
To you, I am nameless and faceless
I am whoever you want me to be
And I hope you take the artists approach
A sculptor contemplating the figure trapped in stone
Murals along chapel walls in colours birthed from primary's alone
I am running my hands along your body as if there are gemstones beneath your skin
Petrichor on your stomach
How wet you are able to make everything
I am finding paintings in your whines
And sonnets in your moans
The way you lean into my touch
Like my palms are made of starlight
It doesn't matter that this hand is mine
Or if this body is mine
Or if these words are mine
You will mould me however you please
And I'll fucking let you
Nails digging into thighs
Knees pressed against sensitive places
Whatever you make of me
However you contort me
I just hope at the end of me
You'll see me as nothing but pure fucking art
Make me your magnum opus
Baroque and renaissance
I am Venus covered in sea foam
A red hen reciting chants into my ear
Achilles at the heads of a hydra
Caesar at the fall of Rome
We are a million light years condensed into one infinite moment
Epics, prophecies; bred at each desperate touch
You are burning the pages with white lighters and matches
And when the fires reach a halt
And the embers singe our skin
Ashes in the folds
I'm asking myself,
"Is this sex?"
04/24/22
