Sweet Thing.

Take away this disorienting morality that’s keeping me from tearing your shirt off and tasting every licking inch of you and what do we have?

There’s a beating tedium that punches faster with everything that I do; every step I take, every word I utter, every thought I muster, every course my tongue takes across my lips. I am growing more and more tired of the repetitive dullness of constraint and discipline. I want to jump of the ledge and do something that is so unforgiving. I want disobedience, I want revolt, I crave wickedness.

I touch myself to a talentless engineering of biased curated thoughts of you saying all the things that I desire from you. Thoughts about your devoted submission to a woman of my caliber, you are on your knees, figuratively, begging for my seduction and I am fighting the urge to hold you by your pulling neck and give you the assurance that we need to defy the ones that say we can’t just-

touch a little,

kiss a little,

laugh a little,

shit,

fuck a little.

I am a maniac; a zealot for your touch.

You see it too, don’t you? You see what you do to me; how I get so weak in the knees that I am contrived by numbing indifference towards you; saying perhaps, entwining it in a despicable eye roll when I am meant to say ‘ay, mine own heart’. You sweet thing, you see what you do to me when you curve those perfectly puce lips into a smile of your own recklessness? You’re killing me and you know it.

Take away the disorienting morality, take it all by its unsightly, weightlessness and what do we have my sacredly beautiful creature?

Why can’t we just-

I am fighting the suffocating impulse of the tips of my fingers surging against the sharp edges of your recently shaven chin, your delicately pumping chest, the alluring curve of the space that your pinstripes tuck neatly under that brown leather belt.

That belt,

coursing between my bare torso-

You sweet thing, do you see what you do to me?

You are a Picasso in the gallery beneath my sheets, the ones I have tugged on hourly through un motivating examinations of bodies just warming up to the master piece that becomes you, stashed neatly for me in the well-lit corner. I run my hands across your body as you tell me exactly what I want to hear; that you have been warming up to this as much as I have, sweet thing tell me what I want to hear, give yourself to me;

A taunting song crafted by mystery easily compels me everytime your name is repeated in my mind; I dread the weak forces that keep me from sitting delicately on your shoulder with my feet dangling over the collarbones that you bury inside those pinstripes, and being part of the mystery of your days with you. I want to know what it is like being such a magnetic creature like yourself. I want to see myself on the mirror you use to tie knots on your tie, mutter affirmations, draw pride, I want to be you sweet thing.

Take away this dreadful morality, jam it wildly in a forgetful ocean of carelessness, throw a fist at it and what do we have?

I want you to strip it off all while you watch me do the same from a distance. Get lost in the seductive nakedness of seductive revolt; taking off principle is sexier than taking off clothes. Give yourself to me; your true self. Hand me the man I see in between laughs and involuntary humor slipped carefully into polite conversation. Give me a name, one that nobody else calls me, call me by your own, sweet thing, give me life.

I am tired of the waiting, give yourself to me.

Note.

Idk, Im faded and yearning like a mf.