I Still Want To Fuck Her With His Dick

I’m sick with his desire.
I could be his shaman.
I might be his angel.
I don’t know what the fuck I am to him.
I am not her.
He knows my words.
He knows I’m willing.
I will him to come home to me.
He thinks he’s already there.
He wants fresh pussy that helps him forget.
Life is a drag. Life is a box. Life is a dream impossible to wrangle.
Fresh pussy helps.
Her face her neck her shoulders her breasts my god those legs
that lava lamp lit cunt so designed for his mouth
and at least a million others.
Houston keeps getting hotter more humid
as mutant mosquitoes swarm.
Her sex greed blood is such a magnet.
I understand. He’s helpless, obedient, nature at work.
God how I adore his biology.
If I had his dick I would pull it out, shoot her a fan letter,
follow her blog to the crevices of hell, stalk her
like a panther, tell her we have the same taste in music.
Any lie would suffice, break the ice into easily swallowed slivers.

I would track down that scent snatch that bloom
breathe her in like any addict
sacrificing so much
for a taste a fix.
He’s the sun. I might be Mars.
The tranquility of the moon eludes us both.
We come in rags, beggars to the beast’s banquet.
We come to burn.
We come to choke on smoke and ashes.
Blisters keep us honest.