Starving.

Starving

by james bezerra

Such cliché

to say you move like poetry.

You move like drunken prose,

gasping, grasping, wanting

everything

all at once;

all hips and tongue and

fingernails down my back.

Shocking, horny, sticky mess

of sweat and desire,

of sex and that tiny noise

you make

when you grind your body

into mine.

You don’t move like poetry.

You move like hunger.

.

.

.