Formula for comfort sex

Let us plot the intersection
points of comfort sex.
Let y equal me
Let x equal you
let us lie down
and make an equal sign.
you then climb me
based on the probability
of who lasts longer
when we whittle away the hours
joined at the vertex
of flexible angles,
sometimes rotating,
sometimes bending,
often shifting
from 45 to 90 degrees,
building momentum,
colliding against
every curve
letting the sweat drop
like Newton’s rain
of two apples
bouncing with the
speed of light
until we reach
the apex and
you climb down
and leave right away.
After all we
let ex equal you
and why equal me.

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worship

In worship
I kneel,
bow my head
to your
other one.
I touch
slowly,
kiss
softly
then I
lick, flick, swirl, suck,
all at the same time
until you call out
“god.”

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The Craving

I am craving a sandwich.

I can almost imagine
the tangy waft of
sweet and sour
mixed with the lather
of mayo spread between
sheets of creamy white bread
filled with pickles,
whole and crisp with its
firm texture rubbing
against my lips as it
slides into the folds of
red engorged tomatoes,
crevices awaiting exploration
by a greedy tongue
teasing black olives
into smooth tautness,
sucking into tenderness,
stabbing until it bursts into
the savory fluid thickness of
finely chopped cauliflowers,
dribbling juice on my chin,
eagerly lapping up
every drop, swallowing
every seed, until I devour
every imaginable pore
of the grainy bread.

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