This tongue
call it ball-point. Forging
letters into your skin
as if it were canvas. My words
tracing beauty marks- down your chest
in hopes of forming something
resembling the trembling
of your fingers
as I spell
sex

in the most eloquent of ways.

And these lips
call them pencil-tips. Tracing
lines from chin to abdomen
like notes on sheet music.
Speaking sharps to your flat- as legs lift
and within beats of heart and
beads of sweat- this
tastes something
like orchestra
crescendo.

Stuttered breath- the apex.

And this moment
call it the intermission- page turn
body tense- and we mix
passion with lack of inhibition.
Tongue in unison to body and hips- this
moment like symphonic bliss
you twitch intermixed
with lust between
almost there and
just enough

look down- I look up this is sex in eloquence.