lo que me conecte a ti

Against my pale
shoulder your dark
hand rests.
Against your dark
breast my pale
fingers pull
and tease.

I pray
to Ramses
and Taurus,
the bull.
You sing
songs about love
juice and other
squeezables
“work, boy,
put your tongue
into it.”

Now you
are above
me, lowering
yourself down
onto that simple
swollen link
that connects
me to you,
down until our
pubes touch,
down until our
bones rub
together.

Freud said men
fear the moment
of entry,
the disappearance
of the self
into the other,
the annihilation
of the ego.

Please, Freud
never got fucked
like this.