Just a little bit of pink in the middle.  That’s the way I like my steak.

A slow bite and pull of the meat.


It makes me hungry.

You remind me of that steak.

Just a little bit of pink.  Just a little bit of sizzle.

Tasting your skin.  Tasting your lips.  The juices dripping from the succulent parts of your body.

Dinner time, baby.

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.


I apologize for lusting after you in my private thoughts

although don’t worry, its nothing as lecherous as that may make it sound.

I think you’re pretty

that’s all I’m trying to say.

You look good in blue.

I try not to stare too much,

but when your blonde, curly hair is up in a bun

and you’re wearing bright azure

you look like a dream and its hard not to steal a glance.

I won’t focus on anything specific

but I can’t help and think

how dangerous your curves are.

And of course you have an accent.

French and sweet and soft.

I’ll keep my distance

and I’ll try not to admire you

but I hope you have someone who tells you

how beautiful you are.

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.

You’re my poison

I don’t like cigarettes, but seeing one dangle from your lips gives me a charge.  You’re so casual too, pinching it between your fingers and dragging in the poison.  You filter out the really bad stuff and let the rest blow like a whistle from your lips.

Such a cool girl with your sunglasses on.