I want to meet you. Talking with you. Share a drink or two with you. Arguing on grand concepts about life, and human, and genes, and people who have passed before us. On emotions. On emotional baggage. On dying. On living. On delirium. On misery. On why people do what they do.
Then to slip into you. To feel your every inch. To taste your every move. To guess which way you incline to. Which noise soothes you. Which sighs excite you. Which moans keep you aroused.
I want to learn about you. About your longing. What brings you. What leads you on. What matters to you. What makes you laugh. What humors you. What keeps you alive. What keeps you awake at night.
I want to see more of you. To your fear of light. To your relish of shades. So my warmth can snug you. Shield you from your angst and worry. To let you fade away. To help you rise back up. To release you from your pain. To ecstasy.
We dig each other. Hips on hips. Your palm on my cheeks. Not willing to let go. Not willing to take a no.
It’s not coming
It’s not yet coming
It’s coming
It came
It’s finished but soon it’s starting again