what i want i want a new phrase for making love. it's too affected. too tired and cumbersome. give me something i can call it. i'll tell you what -- i'll describe something to you, and you tell me what it is, in the most basic terms: i'm lying naked on my back on your bed, your muse, stretched out, languid. you stand over me, so worshipful, masturbating, leaning down, kissing me, sucking my skin. caught in this moment, what can you call this? it's not fucking. we didn't just meet, drunk at some bar. and we're too open. it's not making love; we're not a harlequin novel. tell me what to call it. i need a name before i see you again.
all i want is for you to talk to me. feed me pieces of your confessions like caviar. i know you lie to me. you've already told me twice or three times that you've lied, like tigers in the grass of your truths. but let's be honest -- i like it when you lie. i also like it when you tell the truth. i don't know the difference anyway, and i don't care. and here's why: your truths and lies both come from that same perfect mouth.
when i was so much younger, i lived in a really southern state with booming thunderstorms that made you feel like you lived in the bottom of a lush, narrow bowl. when the rain came, late at night, i would sneak out and lay on top of the highest hill, soaked to the bone with my face crushed in the grass, smelling the newest rain mixed with the dirt and the smell of my own skin.
that is you.
i've cheated death so many times. let me show you how i live.