Wrap it around your neck. Unomfortably close, like a drunk admirer. Shamelessly tight, like Venice Beach. Subversively flamboyant in all the right ways.
I map your tattoos. I eat your tan lines. I know your limits.
Push. Hard. Right. There.
A cup full of cold moon light, spilt across your bare back. The length of you ripples along my touch.
I’m already in. Eye contact granted. Let’s both just disappear for a while. Where they least expect it.