You make love to me as though you wore the manual on the inside of your arm
You touch
You feel
You reel
You slide along the inside of my thigh
You sigh
You smile
You keep yourself aloof
You arch sharply toward the roof
You moan and then you glance to see if by chance I am as transported as you want me to think you are
But no, no different than the back seat of a car a century ago
And then as well
There is one tiny tender thing that you my friend forgot
With all of your ravishing, raging, macho, sexy free
You never even kissed me