–by Becky WTGH
An ode to distance in relationships.
How do I fuck you through a poem?
Is it possible? Might as well try and see.
How do I start,
Do I do it slowly, gradually?
Plant the seed at the beginning,
water it in the middle–
and harvest our fun at the end?
Do you want a long warm-up,
hours before the apex,
climbing slowly, hand-in-hand.
Can I dive straight in,
no foreplay necessary.
Make my presence known,
make my needs the most urgent,
let me be my most predatory.
Do normal rules apply
to poem sex?
Do I take what I want,
when I want it,
because she loves to be wanted?
Do I speed things up,
then slow them back down…
Should we relax for a bit first,
I like it when we wrestle, when we
pin each other down.
I wish I was there with you now,
a poem is not enough.
I need to fuck you like I always do–
wild, messy, tender and–
a little rough.
I know when to stop, when to go
I know the way your body flows
I wish we could be there, together again.
So much so, I almost wish
I could send instructions to a friend.
I know I know, I should be jealous–
but I’m a zealous cuck.
Fucking through a poem is tricky, you see
I can’t get your shirt off
or your pants down.
Your underwear is very stuck,
from this perspective.
You say you take it off, you send me pictures
but what I find isn’t nearly as
exciting as expected.
You see, my thumb needs your cum
for me to trust you’ve been respected.
I need your body, not your mind.
I want your suit, not your soul.
Without your sweat, I am broken
I cannot be whole.
Did I fuck you through this poem?
Probably not, right…
Alas, I’ve tried for lines, stanzas–
soon we’ll be getting into tl;dr territory
Would you rather I wrote an epic poem
about love, romance, pure simple ecstasy?
Why read that bullshit, when I could
write you a poem about fucking?
roses are red
violets are blue
I miss you, I love you
I wish we were fucking
I wish I was better at talking.