"Bounce"

"Bounce"

When I call your name,
anticipate me like the first time.
Lines you've done more than
just fill in the blanks with.
Hips that switch
and
lips that drip
and
muscles so strong
that long for exploration.
Fixed focus when descending stairs.
Your hair tangled in the keys
better mangled in my hands.
The ceiling fan monitors moisture
almost as well as I intend to.

When you hear my voice,
does it tend to linger?
Do you touch yourself?
Do you trace your fingers?
Do you arch your back
in this familiar posture
of forfeiture and submission?
Position where dominance starts at the tip
and guilt disappears at the hilt...

.....those petals never wilt.

Please excuse my wonder.
Focus on enchantment.
Say you "can't with"
and then dread the without.
I'm not here to feed your doubt, love.
Some gloves fit to display
the danger of never removing them

but you're a thrill seeker, aren't you?

You fix your eyes on the keys
as you straighten your knees
and
keep them apart
and
before you start your next stanza,
I give you all you can handle and more.

If it's all the same,
you can give yourself more.
Please don't be ashamed.
Greed benefits this instance.
Glutton unbuttoned and bound to punch
line after line out
whilst I dig you out.
Shout and I'll reach for your soul.
Fingertips along your spine 
searching for a chance to take hold.

Rhythm falls in place.
You can lean into me.
Baby, lose that grace.

You've earned the right to be filthy.

Feel me feel you out
and
fill in places
after
feeling spaces
that
should never be wasted
when
there's filling remaining. 

Training your eyes to the paper
while you thighs I savor
before and after enjoyment.....

My tongue spells your name
and I bet it tickles.
Calligraphy the same.
Nothing plain or simple.
Through the moist membrane,
your lips swelled like dimples.
Never asked you if you came. 

Never just a game we play. 

Read it back to me.
Shake and tremble.

Recite words that flail so fickle....

....let the remnants splash and trickle.

All in rhythm. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Tuesday's Grace"

"Tuesday's Grace"

I miss her when the week ends
and anticipate on Mondays.
Some days, Sunday takes forever
but nothing beats the change in weather.

Time tells the story before me.
Fragments.
Fragrance.
The frequency of my excitement.
She would entice with
no true motive hinged on doing so.
So beautiful her ignorance.
Innocence is rare. 

I dare not miss the moments.
I turn and pry and sit
with all my will and grit
just before she begins speaking.
Love through Life in all her teachings.
She would speak to those still reaching
and remind them that their further
is never really that far away.
Not much more she'd need to say.
Most would steal away
but I would always choose to stay
amid her ambiance so ever-present. 

Effervescent are the times
carefully logged as journal entries.
Others envy for lack of inclusion.
Our seclusion a relic among the modern. 

I reminisce through Thursday
after dreading Wednesday's arrival.
Hours wait behind the minutes
I acknowledge before revival. 

Recollection is vital.
Our day passes by at times
and I am left alone to rhyme
words she'd breathe that cleave the soul.
My least favorite of familiar roles.
I place her points in rhythm
toying with her pomp and poignancy
to preserve the jewels within them. 

She's a blessing not as routine
as the seconds that circle minutes.
She begins with what dreams drift into:
a smile that would subdue the savage,
comfort greater than a mother's carriage
and a voice as soft as petals.
One could settle on such and be fine
but I long to experience her mind. 

Divine if never defined before now
would claim her as embodiment.
Selectively inquisitive yet fully aware
that all the answers haven’t been shared.
She addresses with care
and would never feign her interest.
At her very best, I imagine
her in the brightest lights fashioned
for one as radiant as she. 

Time is what we're taught to see.
That's why we overlook so much

but in her presence, life can't rush. 

The atmosphere demonstrative.
Deliberate decisiveness.
She is energy displaced but never wasted. 

With haste, it seems our days are less frequent.

Friday is a quiet reflection
of what I'll always treasure.
Through the chatter and laughter of Saturday
I make time to count the measures. 

Pleasure a pompous assumption.
With gumption, I've learned to look for more.
Life is less of a chore
when there is happiness to chase

and at least today, 

I can look at her face. 

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz