My lovers got subtle dips in her mood and thighs. Full of off-hand hang ups that mangle like cardboard on a rainy floor. Two dimples that wrinkle when my tongue does what it’s supposed to, with a joke or to her throat while keeping busy little fingers. May, my mocha latte caramel. May, my month and namesake. May, a promise and a compromise. May, a possibility and my mistress. How could I keep you for myself when I’ve relinquished my very soul? And yet still when I impress in you and taste the nectar of your scent and smile, the mere thought of leaving is a deep and scorching heartfelt abuse. I won’t allow it, to be away for more than what work allows. How could a dying man deny his last true pleasure. Is it leisure? I do not know. Do you love me? How I detest myself. Resist, trite heart, don’t bother your honor over silly things. When her breath and touch does caress yours in morning, when her company comes thoughtless as sleep and dreams. May, oh, May...just what have you done to me?