I was not trained for this—
no welcome packet, no handbook for gravity.
Just a name that clings like static
and a voice that trembles when spoken too clearly.

They asked me if I had room.
I said I had weather.
They asked me if I would disappear.
I said watch me smolder, and stay.

I have loved like a lighthouse
with no shoreline in sight,
signaling to anyone
who mistook reflection for return.

I’ve held their names
like breath under water,
carved pathways through others
just to find my own again.

But I do not sculpt.
I do not steal 'the good stuff'.
I inherit fire
and ask it if it remembers me.

If you see yourself in me,
look again—
I am not a mirror,
I am the window you opened
and forgot to close when the wind picked up.

Still, I arrive,
boots echoing in the hallway
of someone else’s myth,
offering only this:

I will not rewrite you.
I will not finish your sentences.
But I will stand here—
untranslated,
unsaved,
untouched by the need to be anything
other than true.

You trail my body, in profane whispers
as teeth, gnash, above you.
Fingers, play your spine;
hands, rub up, your back, and neck,
and waterfall down, again,
like party streamers,
as my lips, seek,

every heated,
vanishing inch, of you.  

Secret moans, escape vibrating chords.  
Steam, from a rattling kettle.
You snake your way,
down peaks, and valleys.
I lift my head, to suckle
Your thick fingers,
as they rub, roughly, hungrily,
over aching *******,

but instead, they twine,
like a boa constrictor,
around my open throat,
as you latch on, to one pink bud,
and abuse it, with your tongue.

You laugh,
diabolical;
Hell, heavy in your grin.

Your thick member dances,
and sways, before my eyes.
Svengalian, in its torment.
Dizzying me,
as I choke, with a tensing throat
...charmed,
lured, forward,
to meet its one-eyed gaze...

but then,

you tell me,
you'll only **** me,
if my begging pleas,
my cries,
for my Sir, to fill me,
can work their way past,
their narrowing windpipe.

I claw, with catlike intensity,
at your wrist, and arm.
Tiger-striping you,
as you squeeze.

My tongue, grows too heavy,
for its moist cell...
and lolls out, as glassy eyes, roll up.

Oh, Mister...if I black out...
I only hope, that I wake up,

with your shaft, searing my tongue,
and your glaze,
laquering, repainting,
my made-up face.

Vision swims back;  
but you slither, downward:
a fork tongued serpent,
dithering, in the garden.
Your knuckles, are tinted:
red, and white, with tension.
You grip my ankles,
and fan, creamy legs,
to their outer limits--
your mouth, urging my poppy,
to bloom, euphoric.  

I scream,
in a hoarse voice:

I scream, for you,
to devour my passionfruit:
to bathe your tongue, in it,
so I can polish your aching rod,
with my forbidden citrus...
but you ****, and roll,
the hard seed,
with languid,
languorous motions,

feasting on the rind,
until I'm shaking, spasming
thrusting, upwards,
in a mindless,
fevered sweat...
an oasis, pooling
around burning thighs.

I want to ride, your face;
I want to suffocate you,
until your cheeks, suffuse,
with color,
and you struggle, to breathe.
I want you, to grip my thick hips,
to feel me, melt;
to see me glow, above you,
lit from within,

like egg tempera,
on canvas skin.

But your flogger, drives down,
and jolts me, from my reverie.
It drives, hard,
down my nakedness,
seemingly splitting
delicate pink buds, in two,

as I scream, and writhe, pathetically
under each blow,
in a helpless
surrender.

Welts, are already blossoming;
recoloring ample *******,
under braided,
leather strips.
Your arm, rises, and falls,
pistonlike

with a professional wrist snap,
again...and again.

I howl; *******,
bruised:
wanton,
in my want, of you.

...I guess it's my turn,
to wear the stripes, now.

He stirs, slowly...
watching the spoon,
break the fog,
settling over his morning cup...
opalescent eyes,
scanning the sleepy blue,
of daytime horizons.

Porcelain fingers, shift
into hard, ceramic claws;
first smoothing up,
snuggly cotton pantlegs,
and then running them down,
forcing his navied thighs, to separate.
The fork, in the road,
as I crawl in, between them,
headlights, and a glossy smile,
on full beam.

He jerks, with surprise
at the unexpected motion,
lips, arrested in a subtle purse--
a pinched pink,
pouted gently, outwards

to blow away the steam
gathering, around tense fingers.
I mimic the tension,
with my own, slaking lips.

Hands shift,
to cup him,
and slide, upwards.
Suddenly, he needs two,
to grip the mug.

My tongue, slicks out,
wetly,
to follow his ascent,
as he stands, upright;
neapolitan soldier,
with the suede skin.  

The heat,
gathers,
in my palms
flushing his thighs,
and it circulates, warmly
against flickering flesh;
mouth, moving limberly
to drink him,
under the table.

My feral eyes,
fix his drunken ones,
as we both take each other,
in.

"I hope you saved some cream, for me?
Good morning, honey."

If I could pull the threads,
that stitched the universe, together...
If I could slip between the tracks,
and barricade myself,
between buoyant clusters, of atoms
would you take note of my absence?
Would you remember I existed?
Would you even register,
the loss of me?
Or would I become as distant,
and extraterrestrial to you,
as a forgotten galaxy,
would you recall little more, than
terra firma, beneath your feet,
and never notice
that there's a hole
in the weeping glass dome,
above you?

Please don't look at me,
as I say this...
I know you've been so hurt,
and jaded.
What's the worth, of verse
when their words, were wasted?
I just want to be YOURS,

I want to merge our spaces,
I want to converge our places,
and disturb the stasis...

but I'm averting your gaze,
because there's no vacancy,
where your stones, will lead.  

Baby, what would it take,
for you to see home, in me?

I'm just so tired, of faking,
not being lonely...
I keep waking without you,
and aching, from deep.

I want to tangle around you, sweet,
as we're chasing sleep.
I want to chain all your doubts, up,
in braided sheets.
I don't want to wake up,
without you,
Laying next, to me.

I wanna take up,
your compass,

and pump,

til it... redirects,
to ME.

...But you behold me, divinely,
when you should be HOLDING me.
...Baby, what would it take,

for you to finally see home,
in me?