Sex with you
rewrites everything I thought I knew—
a fever dream I never want to wake from,
a rhythm I feel days after you’ve gone quiet.

You—
my personal porn star,
but real,
alive beneath me,
eyes wild,
mouth parted,
moving like you were made
to be watched
and touched
and ruined
just by my hands.

You don’t perform,
you possess—
the way you take me in
like you own the moment,
like my body’s just one more thing
you’ve decided to master tonight.

The sounds you make
loop through my mind
like a favorite scene
I keep replaying,
slow motion,
every breath,
every filthy syllable
etched in heat.

There are no cameras here.
No audience.
Just the way you arch your back
when I hit the right spot,
the way your fingers claw at the sheets
like you’re trying to stay tethered
to something real.

You are the only show I crave—
raw, relentless,
mine.
And when it’s over,
I want it again.
And again.
And again.