Vintage

His brand  
of  
flippant
dalliance  
leads
me  
into the  
vortex  
of all  
things  
taboo  
analysing his  
datasets  
and  
algorithms  
noting  
the trends  
as he  
unleashes  
himself  
explicitly  
fisting  
his rock  
hard  
fuckery  
until hot  
molten  
lava  
springs  
forth  
and  
the way  
he  
exhales  
all over  
me  
rocking  
that distinct  
dialect  
as his hot  
breath  
ravishes  
my  
bare flesh  
until  
he monopolises  
and  
trivialises  
our bond  
geographically  
and  
allegorically  
tempting fate  
triangularly  
unaware his  
firm  
grip  
is prone  
to  
slip  
from  
the smirk  
he  
harnesses  
as a shield  
whilst  
violating my  
glistening  
confined spaces  
running  
red  
lights  
and  
disobeying  
the  
stop signs  
divinely  
guided  
he leaves  
his  
mark  
like love  
bites  
marking  
his territory  
and
he runs  
a  
hot  
bath  
so we can  
bathe  
ourselves  
in the  
rose  
scented  
oil  
fused  
tepid water  
and  
the wounds  
in his eyes  
fade  
a little  
more  
each  
time  
he  
explores himself  
in the  
depths  
of me  
as his  
distilled  
vintage  
still  
leaves me  
intoxicated.