It's All the Same

What is this about, I say.

I'm suiting up.

The pad of your middle finger skis down the slope of my spine,

disappearing into the valley of my sex.

My back is fucking killing me, you say,

Don't start.

I begin to feel the engines of my eroticism thrumming

as you turn the ignition, pushing my pinions further.

YOU are killing ME, I say, continuing.

I can't stop now.

Your persistence prevails, and I feel myself being swallowed by you,

the event horizon in sight.

You're right, I'm sorry, you say. I'll try harder.

Please, I say.

Come, you say. I'll draw you a bath.

I'm coming, I say.

You glide into me, your stamen leaning into my pistil.

I blossom for you, pink and dewy. Afterglow like pollen on my skin.

I slide, seamless, under the surface,

and I forget what I was asking.