You ask no less than four times
Is that good?
And my breathy yeses
do not feel like a sufficient answer.
How could I
tell you the truth?
I think
You’ve got the kind of hands
that love to give.
Never taking anything but
the breath away
from my gaping mouth.
I think
You make me regret
the lung capacity
I was born with.
So I let ivy consume me.
I let my neural pathways
grow slack with desire.
I think
You’ve got the kind of hands
I’ve only ever dreamt about and now
I wake up horrified to be empty of them.
Generous.
Unraveling.
Too easy for my desperate body to
lean into and live amongst.
I think
You’ve got your fingers
upon the crux of my body.
And you touch me like
salvation is on the other side
of the coin that is
my satisfaction.