Oh dear, forgive me for saying it, but I might be decent
at writing erotic fiction.
Every action
has an equal and opposite reaction,
slow breath in,
long look out,
fingers walking over our skin
with care,
we are new celestial bodies
and we are astronauts.

Is this all right?

I yearn for your murmurs in the night.
If you say it’s okay,
I’ll go there. Where is it?
All the way.

Lips slide
Fingers clutch
Legs wrap
Flesh shifts
Air runs, leaps, flies from our mouths,
O,
it’s hot in here and somehow
I don’t mind the sweat.

That’d be a pretty good time.
Now it’s all erotic fiction, just film,
spinning over and over in my head.
I have nobody.
Just my body, and these
depraved beautiful somethings.