if i had shared his skin, and felt your nails rake down my back
so that the morning sun raised messages in invisible/visible ink,
forsaking voicemails and text;
if i had been her heart, and felt the (Trojan brand) protection
of your strength around me or perhaps in me;
had i been any mouth imprinted with the signature of your kiss,
any stomach slightly tensed long after you had made it quiver and relax,
had i been the blood on your silver tongue of a night’s sweet surrender–
still i would not be satisfied.
the fact, my lord,
is that i feel not so much the desire to be (of) you,
to be beneath you, or beside you
not so much the longing to be of you
as the insurmountable need to be you.
(i almost wish you’d torture me for this, punish me,
if only so i could say i had felt your passion.)