Mirage.

dirty poetry.

Your fingertips smell
like my wet desires,
because you've a habit
of plunging into the dark misdeeds
which bloom ecstasy like a night child.
Parted lips transfer the mist
that has settled outside your heavily curtained window.
And you might write
dirty poetry on my skin with your blue lips, but you turn parts of me red,
parts of me which only you've known.
I want this afternoon
and I want it with you,
I want it trapped between our legs
and the bedsheets you refuse to change because it smells like us
and the last time we made love.
Your thumb feels like a
paper flower petal,
bleeding it's hues in the
pulp of a tree.
It might be a cold
Dark winter outside,
But you are so soft beside me,
I have never known this warmth
Apart from the fresh blood my
Female boy is all too familiar with.
My eyes feel smudged,
And I can't keep myself open
To talk to you in inaudible gasps
Of everything unsaid which might
Ruin the illusion that I desire you.
I desire you.
And, I am not ashamed of
Holding your face while kissing you.
To feel your face buried in the softest
Part of me.
I am not ashamed to desire you so intimately,
So much and so sudden.