There is no hitting this, no fingernails
sifting through the diamonds all over
my chest, no tree bark to mark
our backs, no necking without teeth.
We'll just stare. Awkwardly.
Staring into you. Romantically.
Staring at you. It is creepy?
Not when pre-teen girls hunt
for this cock hoping to slake
their thirst for true love.
Oh dove, I would snap your wings,
drink your plummet, wear the neck
like a crucifix to ward off these girls
who wear their ovaries on their sleeves.
One day, I will build up the courage,
the resolve, to stop the staring,
stop giving you that pensive look
that unwinds your panties.