I desire to paint you unclothed in my closeted mind.
I so badly want to witness your belly button. Which I believe resembles da Vinci’s The Last Supper minus the religious overtones.
I need to bowl a strike with you naked while drinking Guinness straight from the leprechaun’s engorged penis.
I’m not one for pussy footing around and when it comes to small talk you can count me out.
We could stand around having a pissing contest to see who has the greater intellect or we can call it a draw and get down to watching Netflix in bed while eating Chinese food and lowering our guards.
I used to believe in a second coming before finally accepting women have men beat hands down when it comes to multiple orgasms and the heavy lifting of hostage negotiations.
I am drawn to you like a moth to a flame. Drawn to you like Welch's 100% Grape Juice to a Valentino lace blouse.
I desire to sculpt you with the most unarchaic of prose.
I so badly want to not want you and know I am barking up the wrong tree. Which I believe resembles Bob Ross’s “happy little trees” minus the public broadcasting.
I need to give my wanton desires a break, go to a bar, order a Coca Cola and throw some darts. Think about something, anything other than you standing there on fire in the freezing rain.