The irony of poetry and sex

Shift things around in your head and you're single with skin to skin contact attaching heavy breath.
You're flexing your body, eyes rolling, jaw lifting there is nothing but increasing pressure on your hips.
The guilt is left inside your chest propelling your heart and jolting adredelaine showing up in your heightened
movements and sinking lungs.

Thoughts are only given the power to let you know it's wrong not the right to connect to your heart
when you have pushed it below the surface. The wrong is what makes it so good too. It's the pressure
on your hips that activates the thrust not the pounding of your pulse or the dividing of your mind
between your id and your superego.

You know nothing but what your body wants you to know and that's what feels good. Shadows are
crawling throughout the room hollowing out cheek bones and hips, you end up thinking it's something
fucking beautiful, when it's just fucking. There is nothing poetic about fucking a body when it's only
a body, there is nothing poetic about fucking a past memory, and there is certainly nothing poetic
when I'm fucking you.

I'll tell you what it is though, it's your body sliding down mine increasing the pressure letting our lungs
drown with over worked breath. It's the movement of inside out lust that hits my shoulders against the
walls. It's the smirks on faces and the fingers in all the right places. It's the caress of hands on skin, and the
fucking grabbing and tearing of flesh with fingers and nails. It's you making my body move.

There are other bodies and there is yours. While we're all almost impossible to frame or own I allow myself
to hold onto you. We are no perfect lovers, our bites are nasty and always hidden. Our bodies bleed into
the world just like everyone else's but the real blood still remains in veins while we take on each other.