We listen to Miles Davis, and she plays piano on my skin.
At the same time, my mind stretches like Pete Skianno for the win.
Am I in it to live it,
or am I in it for the sin?
I don’t know,
but what’s a guy supposed to do when he’s been sippin on the gin,
eyeballin’ something thick enough to spin rotisserie,

Preservation is part of the assembly:
dismembering details before the affection arrives,
catch her reaction to a contraction of mine,
relaxin before the passion is prime,
and if she passes, with time,
then the crime is love,
where we find each other in search of higher drugs.
I’ve never been the type to find a crutch,

but she’s a finer Dutch that I wanna have the time to puff and drink scotch.
All about the sex, I think not,
but these scratches on my back speak in ink blots.
Pink spots up and down my chest;
bitemarks still stalk my flesh,
especially when we’re talkin sex, while we talk and text.
She talks the best and walks the steps smooth in stilettos,
shaping my wood; she’s Geppetto
and I’m Pinocchio’s nose.
I don’t know what’s going on down there, but I’m hopin it grows.
She spread her legs open to show
until I took the ‘pen’ out of ‘open’,
and I wrote her an O.

But the best part about it is how she opened her soul,
and let me travel down her yellow brick road.

Now she’s more of a detour to these whores
who only speak for themselves,
making my Peace Corps their Hells.
You need more than spells to produce a glow,
hence why the only guy in your life is someone that you used to know.
If you want to be treated like a Queen, then act like one;
until then, you ain’t nothing but a bougy hoe.

You’re snoozing though;
I’m wide awake.
I love this girl,
but I don’t take the time to say it.
That’s a big card to play,
and it’s not time to play it.
I just like it when we’re layin
underneath dim light, creating conversation so amazing,
we don’t even have to speak because what’s understood needs no explanation.

Our eyes dance like it’s 1999,
and we’ve been smoking weed since we couldn’t find the wine.
Crown and Cokes instead drizzled with a lime.
Her touch sends shivers up my spine
and delivers me the epitome of life.
In ten years, I could see her as literally my wife.
She walks with me,
no pivots in her stride;
she knows I tell the truth--
she's been ridden a couple times by some guys who've already withered in despise.
I'm rolling the dice just to watch the glitter in her eyes,
never smelling like a litter full of lies;
Her kitten purrs with time,
but my fiddlin' is fine;
I've put in my work,
still grooving on this Ridolin-ic high.

I've administered my time
focusing on her eyes rather than her breasts.
She's more than just a chest that I play chess with to see undress.
She's a chest that I play chess with to share this treasure;
she's more than just pulling hair,
though we share this pleasure;
she's more than just biting necks,
though we love the stain.
I love her because we click--
no one the same.
But if the timing isn't right,
then there's no one to blame.
So I'ma keep on writing
because it numbs the pain.