Twelve AM

Because sex is not just intercourse ...

Lay close to sleep. Moon beaming across my body as I can’t wait for another twelve am. Usher nights, bad girls and s**t I got bad. Talk about taking it nice and slow as my hands mapped out what he thought. Fingers playing at bold commands on listless nights, matching the rhythm of my heavy breathing. Booty called again on a hot illicit nocturnal as metaphysical debates trained at my mind. I called it intellectual intercourse, he said mind sex, and I thought cerebral procreation. I wanted to lick my phone as heat made way, hotter still where he touched by voice only. He wanted phone kisses, candy through the wire. We like lovers and friends. Me and him, my little delicious sinning. The virus in my corrupt system, burning ways of feeling onto my blueprint just as I learned how to not attach, he told me early, “Don’t hurt yourself”, I wanted to smile on my perch atop a skyscraper without a parachute. My aphrodisiac. Sexual turning by speech only. I said “You doing it again, that sexy thing.” And he did it again, shooting straight for my poison ivy. Could have climbed through the telecommunication and crawled all over him. So tonight I’m waiting on another twelve am. Get some loving stereo

Reviews

[Obsidian Blackbird McNi..]

just a word of advise, your text should be at least as big as the picture!

though this piece was dire and urgent, and marvelous. I really enjoyed the reference to 9-11 (perched on top of a skyscraper without a parachute) you americans have loads of that imagery subconsciously popping up all over the place. here, though it was violent, sexy, and not traumatic.
cheers