I do not ask for your hand.
I ask for the latitude of your throat,
the longitude of your hipbone.
I am a gentleman of cartography,
and you, my love, are the undiscovered country
I intend to claim with my mouth.
My words are not questions; they are deeds.
When I say, “Your skin is the pale, cool earth,”
it is not metaphor. It is a promise of excavation.
I will dig into you, peasant-bodied and relentless,
not to find jewels or stone,
but to feel the heat of your core,
the molten evidence of your need.
I forged you as a weapon against my own solitude,
and now I must feel you fire.
Let us not speak of love.
Let us speak of the vengeance of the body,
the hour of repayment for all this loneliness.
Oh, the goblets of the breast, from which I will drink
until I am drunk on your sigh.
Oh, the roses of the pubis, a garden I will ruin
with my reverent, perverted mouth.
My thirst is a dark river-bed, and you are the only flood.
I will be the rival you cannot defeat.
Our arguments will end in shoving matches against the wall,
your breath a hiss of defiance that tastes like invitation.
I will tear the lace from your shoulders not with care,
but with the fury of a man who has lost a war
and is determined to plunder the kingdom anyway.
You will fight me, and in your fighting, you will feed me,
your nails in my back a victory, your bite on my lip a treaty.
Then, I will be the protector.
In the roaring crowd, my hand will find the small of your back,
a silent, territorial brand.
Under the tablecloth, at a banquet of fools,
my fingers will walk the silk of your thigh,
a secret invasion only you can feel.
You will maintain your perfect, polite smile
while I wage a war of pressure and patience
on the wet, swollen frontier of your cunt.
Your composure will be my masterpiece.
And when we are alone, I will kneel.
Not in prayer, but in worship.
I am the pervert who learned the language of saints.
I will part your legs with the decorum of a king
opening a treaty he has already won.
My tongue will write sonnets on your clit,
each stanza a command, each caress a claim.
I will not make you come.
I will persuade you to break for me,
a shattering of glass, a surrender of war.
Your hand is not your own.
It is my will, a slow, deliberate journey
over the curve of your hip, the soft skin
of your inner thigh.
It is my whisper that tells you
to part your legs.
Find that place.
The one that swells and weeps for attention.
Circle it. Slowly.
Imagine it’s my tongue tracing that shape,
my breath warm against your wetness.
That’s it. Don’t stop.
Let the tension build, a wave
rising from the deep.
I am with you in the water,
my hands on your hips, pulling you
against the pressure, the friction,
the perfect, torturous bliss.
Let it break.
Shatter for me.
Let the cry that escapes your lips
be my name.
And when you are a landscape of sweat and trembling,
a ruin I have built and adored,
I will whisper the final, gentle obscenity:
“You were always mine.
Now, come find me.”
