I don't want to have to strain
to pick
the berries from your
under-ripe bush.
I want them to be so full
of juice and nectar and desire and earthy skin
that they fall off
from heavy passion
right into my palms
and separate and explode into
summer's lush humidity.
I don't want to
compete with with little girls in heels
awkwardly trying to strut
like newborn deer
who haven't gotten their footing yet.
I want to walk so gracefully, so powerfully, so confidently
that you see nothing else when I walk by
and no other pair of legs
make your head turn.
I don't want to ache
with equal parts pain and desire
when you peel an orange,
its dimpled skin spraying
its lust all over your hands.
I want to ache knowing that
you're both the sticky cause and the
syrupy solution
to what hurts.
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