I wonder if he knows I want to fuck him
cover to cover;
that I imagine how hard his dick would get
or that I fantasize licking the edges;
that I can see him from behind me
as if I’m the mirror,
mirroring his mannerisms unintentionally,
highlighting what I don’t want to forget.
I want to kiss him when he gets too close,
so I use my body language, deceptively
turning in the opposite direction so as not to
give away the ending,
even though all I want to do
is be on the same page.
Subtle; I suspect that’s how his hands would feel
gliding across my shoulders, the backs of my arms,
the underside of my breasts, along my cracked spine.
Gentle, attentive, soft, nurturing,
engulfing me in banned verses.
I wonder if he knows I want his fingers
to slip along my pussy lips like notes in a locker
and read my clit like braille.
I’ve invented his indentations to my paragraph
and dog-eared enough of them to recite them
line
by
line.
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