Ostentatiousness. (noun)

I’m lying on the couch,
fingers bored against the
pages of my inner thigh,
mind numb against endless
lengths of dead classics.

I’ll never say I love thee,
nor count the ways:

But baby,
if we did a little digital voodoo,
slammed a classic
against the hood of a car
and fucked the sentiment
from behind,
I’m sure,
quite sure,
I could be inspired enough       
to count the ways
I want you.

I want you...

Raw...
like a whore on my knees
in a filthy alley,
with cheap red lipstick
staining my cheek and your pants.

When you’re ready,
(again)
my skirt’s hiked around my waist
my endless legs desperate around yours,
and you hold yourself away from my body,
by pinning my wrists to the wall,
connecting us only
(here-there-now)
so you don’t have
to
touch
me.

Watching...
in the living room,
on the couch,  
you at one end,
me at the other;

me watching you,
watching me,
watching you...

And we show each other
exactly
why we are each
the best damn fucks
we’ve ever had:

Then immediately  
make ourselves liars,
and bitch about the
rug-burn for days.

Soft...
with the lights on,
every inch of skin
a revelation.

Covered in sweat
from holding back, and  
exacerbating
the moments
the movements,
until it’s
agony to end,
agony to continue
against the soft feelings,
locked eyes,
and tender nothings
we’re whispering between
kisses.
Your arms buckle and
my legs shake, and
we

lose our (willmindssouls),  

lose our way.

Perhaps I...
Perhaps I’ll count the ways I ... .

But more likely I’ll just ask you to fuck.
It’s all the same thing nowadays, the classics are dead.

It’s all the same thing.