The Beating of Pleasures

I do not refuse the beating of your heart,
do not deny that mine does too.
While you are stiffening under me, cold, icy,
I still do not refuse to accept you.
You may work within me, a saboteur of smiles,
but I can still work without you,
I never needed to feel you lingering in freshly stained sheets.

This patch of bother, this darkened smear,
a mingling of fluids grotesque and pungently sour.
A fruit has been picked, a cherry lays broken no longer fresh,
but is something you have tasted on again and again.
Each time I fear the taste is driving you crazy,
as each time you move your body into mine,
but I still can not feel the beat of your heart.

I do not refuse that it exists, I just would like to know it,
to lay there with you for a moment after we are done,
and know that somehow that beat scatters itself
losing its way among flesh and bone, push and pull,
never escaping its cage of fragile hurt.
Never being pushed between my teeth like your cock,
nor between the cheeks you spread without care.

I could not taste the cherry flavoured stain of your heart,
but I do not refuse you that pleasure of me, oh saboteur.
But I ask while you are stiffening under me,
preparing a way into my flesh and blood,
and pushing your way inexorably to my soul,
do not deny me the fact that our hearts beat
like a lost grandfather clock striking out at the hours
pushing its way into moments of pleasure,
and at least let me hear yours beating.