I would put my hands inside you and you would feel like the ocean in August. You would taste like the sea. Instead, you dive into me. I push against you. Your body is hard.
Hair covers it.
I love what's inside of it, the delicate colors within the twisted contours of a Schiele painting. After whale watching, I am too tired to miss you. These straight people sicken me, clenching their lawful mates' hands. You might catch it. You might die of it.