The Male is perhaps a rough symphony. Cymbals, trumpets announcing an entrance, a presence. A back talk, eye rolled, sighing concerto that hits the highest note of retreation. But you come back for the elation, like a Beethoven, a cloud number ten. Just when you think It's finished, just when you think it’s time for bed.
My heart was longing for you suddenly and I became short of breath. The kind you took away so long ago and only gave back what little I have left.
You don’t block the window anymore. The breeze is cooler without the thick sweat of your breath. Air more fresh, not stained by the dirty words delivered. This space kisses me in ways you never could
Does your body belong to you? Does it do what you tell it to? If the man comes over and through, Does your body belong to you?