All I could do is think
about how she touched me
I need another moment,
I understand,
she’s busy, I’m about to be busy,
but I’m missing her.
I can’t wait for her touch
It’s been days,
and I’m having one of those days,
I wanna know about her day,
as she jacket comes off.
Even though she wearing
the dress I like,
the perfume I crave,
I just want to get
this small talk,
this mundane weekly recap,
out the way,
so we could embrace in
our nirvanic romance, so
I could zoom away
from the typical,
negative congestive smog
that pollutes my mind,
due to dealing with
those typical, stereotypical niggas,
rednecks, and idiots.
Two long kisses later,
I forgot today’s problems.
Adjusting her hair,
she massages my arms,
kissing my neck to chest,
as her massages turn to caresses.
I comment her, grabbing her
and kissed her as if I was giving
her mouth a deep tissue
massage with my tongue.
She gives in,
dress is removed,
my clothes removed,
legs wrapped,
and caressing my back.
Forcing her on the ground,
wrapped in a
spiritual sexual interlock.
Pleasing her—pleasing me
thanking God!
Clawing my back,
squeezing my waist,
clutching her arms
hands
outer thighs
while doing that move she likes.
Saying my name—saying her name—
we suddenly rejoicing
in orgasmic ecstasy
thanking me—thanking her—
stress is relived,
and minds are only
filled with thoughts of each other.
But this is not a bitch I’m just fucking!
God gave her to me
and me to her.
That was only a beginning
a creation of our Eden,
before sin, an environment
free the world and its problems.
This is our paradise
created by our compassion,
the beauty she dispense
surrounded by the
grand luminary of my comforts
of her presence.
Though temporary it’s
the most important
element of my life.
And the only reason,
I have the strength
to deal with this world.
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