Let’s fuck
until our skin makes fire from friction,
so my tongue can find where your moans ignite.

A disgusting display
of impure thoughts
behind all of my quiet,
every sickening sentence,
the loudest nothings,
stay behind my lips
while wiping counters clean
of all the ways I want to melt you.

I’d kiss you right there
if you’d let me.

You are the nervous,
chaotic thrill in my lungs
before I face you
each morning.

Let me trace the curves
of your coastlines,
swim your fingers
through my ocean hair,

electrify me.

I am unraveled
by your cryptic words,
coy glances
I don’t know how to categorize.
just take this choking ache,
extinguish this fervent fever
of unrelenting love,
unholy heartache.

Give in
to temptation.
Find your fingers
the nape of my neck.
Put your soft petals
in my mouth,
let them bloom.

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James Roach (he/him) is most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? He dug up his midwest roots to live in Olympia, Wa., not too far from some sleepy volcanoes and beaches to write home about.
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