(#51) Swell

Dry, sore, craving;

The playground floor wet,
The air fresh-cold and intimate.
The hearts race quickly for
We have control, but not of ourselves
For now, the swift strides of
Hands, lips melt into our minds,
Stealing rationality- we deposit
Emotions like fluid.

The slim shape of love, stoked
In my heart's hearth, tender-
Your body pressed deep, you
Stimulate my soul, I want;
No, I need you. Those words
I wish to say, but I must hold back

For I want you to finish first,
This is no race, there's no rushing,
Not while the world has stopped moving
While we let time slip away,
And clothes.

Wet, warm, insatiable.