It starts with hands in hair,

a fist full that pulls gently matching rhythms of kisses,

soft against cracked, concrete to combat abstraction of emotion,

velvet strands like tethers to pull away and allow access to tender neck flesh,

each bite and kiss accompanied by hot air breathed in an ear, or against a scalp,

fingers move their ways, back,

where nails make raised mountains that divide the lines between pain and

pleasure that disappear before sunrise, but for those hours are marks of property ownership.

Tongues box step in tune with hearts pumping so fast that neither breast nor ribs can contain

their wild melodies one would swear was rattling the walls of a shitty small little

Manchester apartment, where neighbors would pound vain blood on doors,

Because now fingers have found nipples, bundles of nerves erected, creating more surface

area to rub against skin, a body desperate for sensation, stimulated by breeze and breath

and sweat.

A farewell pinch leads hands downward, pressure on a sternum forcing giggles that get caught

ricocheting in cheeks, opposite tongues, two intense fencers in a battle of life and lust,

until allowed to leave in condensation that catches on cheeks and on the eyelashes of rolled back eyes.

Hands on either thigh, spreading soft legs aside so a mouth can carve a path down a spasming

torso, where a beard maps out every inch of skin,

where each end acts like an antenna for this primal dance, where sight takes a back seat to

taste,

and touch.

Hands squeeze until bruises flood the surface, finishes on tattoos that should never be, but in

this moment sting with perfection, until they meet at the apex,

and surely, these fingers must be electric, because when they meet moisture comparable only

to waterfalls, hips and legs and arms and neck snap and cock, like electrical charges,

stimulating the delta of this fertile crescent summon prayers to god so thick they will cake the

walls so they can be scraped off in moments of loneliness and conjure this moment again,

where fingers slide below clitoris and become ensconced in impossibly hot silk,

where hips move so fast in an attempt to snap wrists, pressure building against a dike where

keeping it plugged forever becomes an infantile task, where stamina means nothing and every inch of skin becomes an eye,

Becomes an ear,

A tongue,

Becomes a nose,

where moments last forever as long as you can unclench your fists enough to caress and grab

and squeeze and rip and tear.

This moment, where injuries occur, but aren’t felt until the next day, where a sore hip becomes a

sweet memory,

where a sore pelvis becomes a face shattering smile shared across a room when the moment

is at its absolute worst,

where you lips become a visual braille that says, remember when you slide inside me and made

me mine, and I climbed atop you and for hours we were one, where the world ceased to exist outside of ourselves, where jobs and responsibilities and pets and family take a back burner, where skin becomes a sponge and consumption of pleasure through sexual osmosis and reverse osmosis is the ultimate goal.