Wet weaponry

I love a man who says two words a day
one “you”, one “stay”
not for me the men who say they ‘get me’
and secretly hate me
for my distain
of them
of men
 
but rather a man who takes me so well
I whisper spells
into his chest
and tie my limbs around his warmth
responding to ancient chemistry
with the wet weaponry
of me
 
I love a man who can undress my body without spilling his drink
and knows the way to lay me down on the floor
on my island of open books
to flay me with his needs
and not close even one
so the words written there must watch
what they only pretend to know
 
I love a man who cares about me
as long as he doesn’t show it like a boy
with jealousy
or adoration
creations of his ego, both
 
I love a man who leaves
often
to bend the world to his arms
to build things
or to tear up life with a disdain for it that makes me wonder if he loves it at all
or me at all
 
I love a man who keeps me guessing
if he’s here for the undressing
or the fight
and I’d forgive him for either
if he can do them well enough
to move my blood away from my heart
and into my devouring compartments
where he is mine, without words
 
without the need for interpretations
of motion
or emotion
or love