Wednesday, June 24, 2015

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.

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