Seated atop a pedestal,
you are
watching me.
Your smoke breaks
seamlessly align
with my desire
for a breath of fresh air.
I’ve never tasted it
in this city;
never tasted anything
so bold
and full of friction.
As I take a drag
of smog and soot,
I see your hand
lighting up.
And I smell the burning of the plumes.
You know
that you’ve seen me before;
know my face
from beneath my veil.
You’re always watching,
staring intently
from your throne
upon the stage.
When I come
to see you play canary,
it’s as if you’re whispering
a mixture of dirt and sweat
against my ears.
I can almost feel
your hot breath
wrapping around my thighs.
I know you’re watching.
And I know you know
I can feel your eyes.
It’s a distraction
we’re getting at.
It’s a flagrant display
between puppeteer
and marionette.
You are
just intoxicated
enough to believe
that I’m held together
by a string,
but you know I know
where your thoughts
and eyes are meeting
in this dance.
It’s played out on the stage
where you lay your music
and your head
down to rest.
It’s more than a murmur.
By now,
it’s practically a pant
from between
and betwixt your lips.
So,
it is inevitable
that you will wander over.
And when you do,
you’ll want a name
to go with the face.
It’s inevitable
what you’ll ask:
what I do, what I’m up to
if you’ve met me before, what I think of you.
If only for the sake
of stoking the fires of this flame.
Here
Everything feels so far from morning
Electric and heady,
The numbers are reverberating
slowly down my spine.
In this context,
with the candles set
upon the lace-covered
table tops,
our covetous, unspoken bet
runs amuck.
With patrons bolted in a state of recline,
I am
captivated by your stare
and feeling the onslaught
of this implicit dare.
There are
five strings
beneath those fingers
and your dark,
solitary focus.
Five strings
to tether me
in a tempest
and bring forth the release
of a guttural weakness.
Two hands
to keep on playing
and reduce me
to humming along
to your measure.
So,
you will ask a name
to go with the face
beneath my veil.
You will want to shake my hand;
to touch my skin,
but you will only feel
the leather of my glove
beneath the din
of the fading
evening,
until I’m willing to concede defeat
to my senses
and hungrily give in.
And then, as if by force,
you will wander over.
You will ask two hands.
Inevitably,
I’ll raise you one -
a pair of legs more.
You are
the perfect cocktail
Of amusement and sin
There’s little
To no footwork involved
and never enough skin
If stoic magnets
are not immune to attraction,
can you honestly blame me
if I’m not completely refractory?
When the next morning
comes,
As I stretch from the sheets;
as I pad down the hallway to brush my teeth,
expecting something a little harder
than eggs, toast, and coffee,
I won’t make excuses.
I’ll just chalk it up
to another case
of unrelenting
Sex Gravity
