Choosing a man like
deciding on a combo meal.
How did we get to this place
where people with no physical
or spacial knowing of another
are comfortable enough to say
cock and balls in black and white.
The texts come any old time, with
questions on how I like my sex.
How I like my sex?
God, I miss flirting across the bar.
Long, smoldering glances, and
then he walks over, he's near,
next to me, my heart thumps
like wild gallops. I'm lit up inside.
He's adorable, perfect, just as he
was a few moments ago, only
up close his musky, masculine
scent is intoxicating, and I about
die when he gently moves strands
of my hair to talk into my ear.
Then he hands me a paper
napkin rose and I fall into a thousand
tiny hearts and butterflies. This is it.
The dance.Two bodies, suddenly
together, moving in step, maybe in love.
Not clumsy, rude texts, precursors
to an awkward, arranged, and safe
coffee meet. How unimaginative,
unromantic. (CUE NOSTALGIA)
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