Punch Drunk

You.

Your face, your voice, your body; your thoughts and words and desire.

You.

Your dark, smiling eyes, your tickling beard, your maddening, masculine scent.

You. You. You.

You dizzy my mind, ignite my flesh. You speak to them both. No, you do more than that. You whisper and sing to them; you craze and soothe them; you groan and scream at them. You seduce them and me. We are powerless, us three. We can not resist. You make us want you.

You make me want you.

You intoxicate, you possess; you make me long through the morning, through the night for the man, the lover, the beast. You make me yearn for your hard uncut meat, for your fingering touch, for your sensual kiss, for your overwhelming heat, for a taste of the first glistening pearl of your arousal, for the talk and the laughter and the silence and the being as our spent, tangled bodies recover in the low afternoon light. You make ache with a lust and a passion that drive all thoughts from my head, that strike my fair form at each and every moment, that compel my hands to sate this slick, needy flesh when you are cruelly out of reach.

You. I’m drunk on you. I'm drunk on you already. And I never want to be sober again.