A Sweet Omen

I'm the type of woman you get over    
And press thighs with your fucking certitude;      
You need not ever cultivate this lover,      
For you can bring me culture and the crude      
Words that warm and wake me, when you whisper      
And pull me underneath you (yet again);      
It's your right: so, no need to insist, sir -      
I'll just murmur "yes" - this quiet refrain      
Will rise in pitch when it's oft repeated,      
As if it will not cease until so high,      
That voicing cries as I'm well-defeated      
In this surrender to your force; I sigh      
As your hands  wrap my rose so prettily:  
A sweet omen in perpetuity.