It’s poetic to fuck a poet. The mind is everywhere and here with you. Bravery in a spoken word. Melody in a verse that twirls, limbs entwined, thrown against the wall of our own words, mixed in the morning giggle, soaked in wet love.
It’s poetic to love a poet. Every moment would find its own crumpled page, a shy scribble, a long gaze at the moon. Wings would sprout for an earnest flight into the unknown, with sincere excitement, hands held tight as time is explored and space understood.
A Tracey Emin blares out how poets like you should fuck poets like me. Depths exist to dive into. Shallow pleasure exists for a regretful afterlife. But espresso tempts and poets indulge.
I met you at the gym and it all made sense. Life led with pain yet happiness that’s sought. I’m not even sure how real you are anymore, but you make for a sultry muse, a luscious plot, worthy of mad starlight. A question and an answer make for lifelong learning. The quest for meaning simplified. A simple thrill to toy around with.