Black Sweater

I miss that black sweater you used to wear.  I think you called it a cardigan or something.  I’m not good with fashion and I don’t know all of the specific names of all the little pieces of clothing, but I loved that black sweater.  You wore it perfectly.

It would hug your sides.  It showed off how amazing your hips are, the way they hour glassed down your frame.  Every button would be fastened from top to bottom and it would squeeze around your waist closer than anything else in the world.  That sweater was perfect.  I miss it so much.

The fabric was so soft.  It wasn’t new or anything but it was soft.  I loved unbuttoning it slowly.  Do you remember the way I used to fiddle with each of the buttons when I was undoing it?  Looping it in and out as I circled my thumb around before finally letting it go.  There were six buttons.  I remember because I would sometimes count them out loud as they finally slipped free of my fingers.

I remember the last time I saw that sweater too.  You’re the reason it’s gone.  You decided to surprise me.  I stopped into your place on the way home from work.  It was late and I called you and asked if you were awake.  You said, “barely.”

“I’m coming in.”

“I’ll be asleep,” you said.

“Either way.”

You weren’t in bed though.  I went into your room and didn’t see you until you came out of the bathroom.  All you were wearing was a pink thong and that soft black sweater with the six buttons.  The V-neck cardigan that sloped down your chest and hugged your body the way I liked to at night.  The piece of clothing that pressed up right underneath your breasts and seemed to hold up your cleavage and dare me to dive into them.

I ripped that black sweater off of you.  I didn’t bother with the buttons.  I didn’t bother with the fabric.  I just ripped it off of you.  I picked you up and carried you to the bed and we had some of the best sex we’ve ever had.

I really miss that black sweater.


I’m in bed with you.

Again. Because we always end up in bed.

It doesn’t matter if we argue or feign indifference, we always find our way out of our clothes and against each other’s skin.

I’m going to drift off to sleep in a few minutes but I wanted to capture this moment. You’re asleep, freshly fucked until my legs burned with quit but I refused. I never tap out first.

I wanted to save this moment in my mind at how beautiful you are and what I would give to be lying next to you, just like this in 30 years thinking these same thoughts. Hips worse for wear. Legs would be burned out long before I’d want them to, but you still there next to me to watch sleep afterwards.

So goodnight, gorgeous. I hope your legs are as sore as mine will be in the morning, and I hope you never leave my bed.

You are dirty words written on my wrist

Your body is poetry to me and I want to write the words along your curves.
On your hips they’ll cascade down between your thighs.
Along your chest they’ll circle inward until no room is left.
Around your neck they’ll be written in blues and blacks tightly together.
A single word for each toe.
A single word for each finger.
My teeth will leave the words marked into your fleshy bottom, an unintelligible yet universal language.
When I’m done,
with the ink still wet,
I’ll have you on me and we’ll smear the words into each others skin
and fuck the poetry into each other’s sin


You look like a queen sitting on your throne.  All the spoils that go with the crown are at your feet, including me.  (Even if that isn’t much of a prize, owning someone’s willingness to do anything is a lot).

Your royal dress is down to its minimum, a pair of panties that are made of as little fabric as humanly possible, and that’s it.  Your nails are done, fingers and toes.  Blood red.  They look remarkable as they dance up and down while your foot bounces.  Your leg crossed over the other as you swing your foot like a conductor plays their orchestra.
There is only a silhouette of you.  The light is shining through the window behind you and I can’t see any expression.  All that is there is darkness and the occasional dissipating smoke from your cigarette.

Silence blankets the room.  The most prevalent sound is the smoke blowing from your lips.  My eyes are fixated on your swinging foot and your painted toes.  It’s hypnotizing.  Long live the queen.


We love things for reasons we don’t often know.  Sounds, smells and tastes, they all soak into our skin and become a part of how we live.  The places that give us the most comfort have an ambiance that echoes our loves.  The clattering of plates and murmur of voices while the aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air does it for some.  Others find themselves at peace under the sun with birds chirping and stillness in the air.  The beach, the city at night, the streets after it rains, they all are favorites for many different people who are more alike then they know.

For me though, I never had a place that gave me calm yet filled me with life.  For me it was different things that could never balance themselves out to perfect symmetry.  A rose alive in a dark room whispering from the shadows.  Rain to glass among howling wind on a mid-morning Tuesday.  They would come to say hello once or twice a year, but I didn’t know them very well.

It wasn’t until I met you that I thought I could have a place like everyone else had.  A comfort.  Tranquility.  You were the smell of sweet citrus in the summer.  Sticky and running down your chin from a voracious bite.  I’d lick the acidic sweetness from your lips and grow it to a kiss of tongues and heavy breaths.
After our bodies were peeled of any clothing and our colorful skin bare, ready for teeth to taste the juices inside, you became music to soothe me.  The arch of your hips and your breast curved like an instrument.  The plucking pizzicato of sensitive strings made you sing.  Your leg bowed around my back, creating music in me as you drew it across my flesh.  Our vibrations humming in pictured beauty.

That is what you are, what you were.  My sanctuary.  My garden.
You were my nature.  You were my music.
The hard winds that erode the cliffs.  The fierce waves that crash against the rocks.

You were growth.  You were life.  You were more than love.


Lordosis Behavior

Tell me that you want me.  Show me.

Tighten your back and weaken your hips.  Bend.
You always had bad posture, now lets put it to use.  

I’m a bull and you’re wearing red.
Flared and charging down Pamplona’s streets.

Predator and prey,
but you want to be hunted.

As I sink my teeth in I cannot resist
and your mouth falls open in a frenzy

If I could think in that moment I’d wonder
who was hunting who

If I could think in that moment
then you wouldn’t be you.

Heart shaped

The little space between your legs

when they’re pressed together.

Light shines through

as does the lust,

my minds in a tether.

It’s a view of me and you

and your body contorted.

Bent in half at hunger’s wrath

feasting until morning.

That heart-shaped space

with thighs closed tight

pulling at my strings.

Ripped and torn

pouring sounds of want

and any craving that it brings.

Ten Minutes To Midnight

It’s ten minutes to midnight and you just went to bed, but I’m left lingering in my chair for a short while after.  Your scent is holding just under my nose and on my fingers and absolutely on my lips.  Along with your taste.

I could have went to bed with you.  Your arm was stretched out and holding mine as you tugged lightly and let my hand slip through your fingers.  Instead I shook my head and waved you off.

“In a minute,” I said.

You shrugged with a smile and headed on without me.  Your body swayed and your hips shook until you faded into the darkness and left me with my thoughts.

Those thoughts were part of why I couldn’t go with you.  Not yet.  I wanted to savor the feeling.  The experience of you.  Those thoughts were going to be scorched into my memory while my body was too weak to move.

I don’t know how you got up so steadily.  Maybe you collapsed on the bed in a heap once you made it, but I couldn’t even fake it for that long.  You know how to take me apart and leave me in pieces.  My hands are too shaky to put myself back together right away, I need a minute.  You’re masterful at making me need to recover.

I’ll be in there soon.  I’ll be in there with you.  I may even find a surge and try to do further damage to your skin with my teeth and nails.  Knock your bones off of their joints and make you walk funny just for me.  You’ve already done it my way plenty of times.

It’s now three minutes to midnight.  I’ve sat long enough.  I want to turn today into tomorrow against you.


Drunken Poets Tell The Truth

“I favor eating your pussy to all others, dear Ruby,” the old man exclaimed in slurred words while leaning over papers at his desk.

“Charming,” replied the young woman from the bed a few feet away, “it’s amazing those words of yours aren’t published and plastered across newspapers far and wide.”

He sneered back at her, “same could be said of your cunt.”

She rolled over and put her back to him.  The sheet bunched up between her legs and balled against her chest.  She hugged it tight for comfort instead of warmth.  The raging fire in the furnace was enough to keep the entire street warm, yet he kept the window open all winter as well.

“I think better in between temperatures,” he would tell anyone who asked, and there were plenty.  He’d invite people up to his room to drink beyond closing hours of the bar he lived above.  There would be women as well, prostitutes, he would spend whatever money on he had that he didn’t imbibe.  There were no shortage of people in and out of his tiny apartment.

Tonight it was Ruby.  That wasn’t her real name but she hadn’t used her real name in so long that it may as well have been.  She had heard about the old man that lived above the bar and all of the stories that went along with him.  His eccentricities.  How he would rant and drink and give a girl whatever she wanted if she seemed interested.  His bluntness and the bit of mean streak that he carried, it was mostly words but he could look threatening if he wanted to.  Nobody ever claimed he harmed them though.

He also had money, which was the most important thing to a woman selling her body for sexual favors.  It really was the only thing that mattered.

The old man always paid and he usually paid more than the agreed upon amount.

“He’s a great tipper,” the other girls told Ruby when she got the call.

“He’ll fuck you, he’ll drink, he’ll rant and when he falls asleep you just take the money and slip out like nothing.  There’s no pleading for more time or trying to set up another date.  It’s a quick transaction and usually doesn’t even last the whole night.”

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