Poetry is Fornication

It starts with the description.
In your mind,
the perception of your feelings.
Turning over like my mom's new energy efficient washer.

Like chat roulette,
and you switch from
weird/unknown
to
sexy/foreign
[thought]

Moving from mystery to tangible.
Grope and probe,
like they signed consent forms.
Sweat as you run your hands down
the chiseled figure.
Statuesque. Concrete. Ideas.

This is when I realize:

Its only because of the rain that I smell the pavement.
I only like rap because they're riddles.
I like to mop for the lemon scent.
I only eat Oreos for the middle.

I'm day dreaming.