Four days of you,
And all I can do is querulously ask,
From the floor at Dylan’s,
As I kneel at your feet,
Cleaning my dried come off of your new brown leather pants with my tongue,
“Why so vanilla?”
You both laugh at me.
You chuck me under my chinny-chin-chin,
And ask me, “What part was vanilla?
The part where I stuffed two feet of chain up your cunt?
Or the bit where you were tied up with a steel egg in your ass and I was fisting you?
Maybe it was where we were wearing boots, strap-ons and nothing else, and you were sucking my cock?
Or was it when I was beating you with a baseball bat?
Or was it here and now, with you licking my pants?
Tell me little Bird.”
The truth is this;
It isn’t the vanilla, but the soft bits,
Which terrifies me and leads me to whine,
It is all the tender parts;
The part where we lay together nuzzling like orphan ponies,
The part where we wrap ourselves around each other like seaweed,
Drowning in our bed of kisses and come,
Not getting up until 3 in the afternoon,
And then only to bring back soup bowls of heated up khoresh,
Eating while under the worn-out quilt,
The cat back on the bed for this interlude.
The parts where we sleep together,
Kissing each other even through our snores,
Shoulders, legs, backs, necks,
All warm flesh belonging to one another, and loved.
The rich vanilla of desire rolling through our mouths like holiday candy,
And I want you again and again.
