sufferin'

I don't mean to sound creepy, kid,

but it's not long I can last here, being in a bed,

knowing you're out there.

A haze comes over me like I've looked too long at a snake. Hypocrites

hate sickness, or claim to. Thinking of you lowers a throb into the folds

around my slit of a cunt, makes me push three fingers through thick hair into a fruit-like mush of myself, where something perfect rises

and hulks. To solve this: humping down on the side of your leg,

or pressing my cool whole curvy body against your side.

I want what you promise,

I want your infinitesimal strokes,

I want your adjustments,

I want to fuck sensitive, fuck wise,

for you, fully clothed, to turn your head toward my ear and slur,

describe the way you store yourself.

I would grip down for that, I would be good for that. I would not fight then,

just continually unwind and be fully body.

Only seeing to the mind I've glimpsed would I be fully body.