Sessions

Our sex is in sessions
Successions of sex.
The dance is not tango
It starts where we left off
It ends, no real end
Spiral it out and spiral it in.
It’s coupled desire,
Black garlic infused.

Fermentation is a never-ending process.
It bubbles up
Ebb and flow

Sour
Soft
Slow

Close your eyes, open your mouth
Hold my head gently and dive. 

The midnight of our noon
Spills over time as space leaks
Through a backdoor with a blue curtain.
One last glance
Before the next show.

Your face,
Lost between my legs 
Still locked in embrace.

I go train hopping again.
Oh, travel is an illusion,
Born out of songs without a refrain.