I don't want to write you poetry

I don’t want to write you poetry.

I don’t want to share how your intimate education

enlightens and emboldens me.

Nor how much I crave

this submission.

I don’t want you to know that

your existence in my life

can soothe as much as

it can exasperate.

Nor do I want you to realise

your particular mix of

pleasure and pain

drops boundaries for me.

I don’t want you to find out

how exposed and giddy I feel

when you look at me.

Or admit that having you

inside my head

is a full-time erotic distraction.

I don’t want to tell you

that the memory

of your dirty whispered words

wakes me from sleep

in the small hours

all slippery and wet.

I especially don’t want

to describe to you

the primal need

I have for

your cane on my flesh

your hands on my throat

your teeth on my skin

your mouth on my breast

and your cock in my …

I don’t want to write you poetry.