Sex, Life and Love

Someone told me to write about sex.


I can't forget the way he smiled
Like pine on the neck of a king, he was too sculpted not to be considered a work of art
He was too colorful not to be considered my very own landscape of emotions
He was too rigid not to be considered the terrain of my past lovers
I mean, he was too real not to disturb all the falsities I encountered
And I loved him in a sickening way
Letting our thighs tangle between each other
Forcing my nails into the flesh of his back
Painting the lining of his cheeks with my tongue
Letting his body permeate mine like two hummingbirds to the petals of offering flowers
I made love to him
Over and over again
Till I throbbed at the sound of his name
Till I grew weak at the mention of him
Till my skin turned hot from the touch of him
He was inside of me
Literally and figuratively
And I carried him with me till the weight of our sex fell off of me like Thanksgiving day pounds and Christmas cookies
I made love to him from the root of my hair to the soles of my feet
I tell you
I fucked him till it meant something
Till my body bled from the trauma
Till my heart beat louder than the drums in the Serengeti 
Till I loved him so much that it was too strong to be considered love anymore
I loved him till love became life
And fucked him to negotiate his next life in exchange for love
I'm telling you
I ain't never had sex
I had him
His fingerprints, his breath, his sweat, his hairline, his muscles, his saliva
I had him 
Over and over again
Not until he meant everything to me, but rather till everything to me meant nothing without him.