[Metafornicate]

On your bed we drop our guards instead of our
drawers and metafornicate all fucking
night long as we probe
our desires and squirm under the incriminating finger
of guilt. Four feet apart we rub souls, rub soles, unfold
our fantasies—you handle yours gently, and I,
always the aggressive one, manhandle
mine before your eyes. You trace the blanket’s pattern as
our toes dance in the shadows. I crack your
knuckle; you gasp. the sunset’s gaze judges
as your fist uncurls itself upon the covers.