Provocations of lust from a distance at unknown velocity.
What I mean is I feel it in my pants before I hear it in her voice. You (meaning me) swore you’d never be raunchy, but here you are writing poems with the tip of your penis.

Tsk, tsk, tsk. I hear it in my voice before I put it down on paper and it’s a wonder I can do that at all when I can feel you (her) in my heart and on my bed before you have your first thought of me in the morning.

I saw a quote I liked on Instagram that reads,
“From tiny experiences we build cathedrals”
It’s by someone named Orhan Pamuk.
I don’t know who he is. Maybe a poet. Maybe a painter.
He speaks to me in my heart of hearts.

My heart, my heart of hearts, superpositioned in timeless space and spaceless time both in my chest and, across town,
beyond and above the traffic keeping me from you,
in your chest, until I feel its beat and it chooses to stay
inside of me (where it rattles its cage in want of you.)

And now I’m engorged and ready for you.
You’re touching me from the future. I feel your fingers on me. A tickle like a twinkle in the night I’ve yet to live.
They say observation causes uncertainty to collapse
so I cross my fingers and close my eyes to the future
while licking my lips to the taste of our entanglement.