I wake up with sweat
drooling down my portentous pores;
The copacetic silence is striking.
My mind winds backwards,
attempting to retrace every detailed thought.
Though at times, slipping into holes of blank.
I collapse into a scheme of fabricating scenarios,
just to bound up the whimpered wounds.
Frustruated with fury,
I forfeit my strive.
Nothing I force fantasize will ever compare,
relate, or even be close to equivalent
moaning sex dream I just had of you.
Tagged as: sex. poetry. dreams. fantasy. spilled ink. poem.