“Tell me about…un-rhymable things?” she said.
Guttural shudders.
The sound of sloppy passion
forgetting to breathe.
The weight of the air
when your nerve endings howl at
not enough too much.
The spasming taste
of lost control as your heart
rips you in your skin.
The wild-eyed feeling
of my buried orgasm
belonging to you.
“These are things that cannot be rhymed,” he answered.
