this tongue.
call it ball-point. forging
letters into your skin
as if it were canvas. my words
tracing beauty marks- down your chest.
in hopes of forming something
resembling the trembling
of your fingers
as I spell
sex

in the most eloquent of ways

and these lips
call them pencil-tips. tracing
lines from chin to adbomen
like notes on sheet music.
speaking sharps to your flat- as legs lift
and within beats of heart and
beads of sweat- this
tastes something
like orchestra
crescendo

stuttered breath- the apex.

and this moment.
call it the intermission. page turn.
body tense- and we mix
passion with lack of inhibition
tongue in unison to body and hips- this
moment. like symphonic bliss
you twitch. intermixed
with lust. between
almost there and
just enough.

look down- I look up. this is sex. in eloquence