My heart melted
when the neighbor pounded
his fist on the bedroom wall
from across the hall.
I fell in love with a concept
of a girl, I strung along by design.
I penned the blueprint of
touching her silky skin —
a memory in which only
time reveals.
She crawled across my heart
and my gaze won’t let go
of her hips and her
full lips pressed against mine.
We touched before we hit the bed,
falling to an autumn night
with synergy, moaning in
the harmony, we made music loud enough
to the neighbor to throw pop tarts
at the window.
We continued to fuck, holding out words
breaking out in random giggles
to the neighbor screaming: “I heard that.”
(© 2022 AC)
Any kind of rowdy sex prompting the throwing of Pop Tarts is the best kind of sex.
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