Again and again like a nasty photocopier, stuck with you; thinking of your hard soft buttonettes, your brilliant smoothness, your inexorable somethingness.

I made you up. I make you up when I want you, and I only make you up when I want you, when I want you to want me to want you, when I want you to be on all fours.

Out of my ass a whole world is coming out of my ass. This is it. You touch me, you take me, you repeat me, you touch me, arch back, you take me, arch, repeat me. You repeat me unexpectedly at times when I have forgotten myself. You take me for granted, you forget about me and then slowly and once again you give me your throbbing member, without knowing, without having remembering it could feel like this, so empty and so fully full simultaneously.

It all comes down to who you are and how far you can arch your back.

I'm whining over your great protrusion again, but now I am not listening to your faked cries, because you did not hold my hand firm enough. Just now, you forgot to buy cigarettes. You only promised to love me once.

Now, I can see my nails through my sunglasses, my long fingers holding my ankles holding your tower.

“Come.  Give me a kiss," you say.

I see your pants sticking to your crotch, your tender mountain which takes the shape of an escarpment when I fall down into the valley.

“I want you," you say.

And I say, I say, oh yes baby, yes, that's it, ravish me.

But you are still at work, and I am alone in my room waiting for you. I have placed a kiss in between my two velvet handkerchieves. I am a doorway, you see, waiting for you.

Oh yes I am waiting for you.  I love waiting for you to finish work and come and fuck me, you son of a bitch, you mother fucker. Just come home from work and fuck me. Make me stay still.