In the evening tilt of neon light, blink red, blink blue, my voice shook to admit it to you.
The hunger. The squirm. The sweet drips all day. The sophistication of so many ways that crept into my cock, like dreams of childhood with thrust hips and secret spasms in the sheets.
As I spoke behind closed eyes, you dribbled my pants down, and my cock danced with lyrics of so much confused poetry. And you groaned. Dear god, you groaned for the beauty and for the raw, muscled craving and spillage of surrender.
And you told me you wanted to devour every one of my dreams, so I kept streaming, unwinding, unbecoming, and I cried out when your lick cradled my cock, following me down, collapsing, falling into the chair, jutting my cock upward and outward for you to welcome and embrace.
We swirled in those blink red, blink blue dreams that I could never forget.
Wanting to die.
In the never-forgetting.