It’s not about sex. Not really.
Intimacy, something closer to real.
Your eyes inside mine, you inside me. Warmth in the open window cross breeze; raining outside.
Words we only say when we’re here, having sex. People we only are.
Chasing and subsuming each other, real without flickering in and out.
Sweat, spit, and sometimes blood. Placing a ritual between us.
As soon as it’s over, I want to be with you again—having sex.


















