T h e   P s y c h i a t r i s t

This angelic tenderness is too much.
Your office, too burgundy, too leather.
Your desk is too cherrywood.
You have gone overboard in decoration.
I am sick of your x-ray vision,
Your unnerving telepathy
And irresponsible precognition,
The way you try to medicate my ghosts away
Because they are such stiff competition.
 
Your hands and eyes are too soft.
Your mouth opens mine without warning.
You taste like butterscotch and Red Bull.
I rake my hand through your stylishly graying hair,
Your fingers, so deep inside me
Making circles, wide and wider
Preparing me for the thickness of you.
I straddle you,
One berry brown nipple in your mouth
And milk your one o'clock erection
With my Kegel muscles
Because the wingback chair
Creaks guiltily when we move.
As you climax, I stretch your mouth,
Forcing my whole breast inside
So your waiting patients cannot hear
The way you cry out when you come.
 
That's what you say my dream meant,
The two of us playing chess in the storm
After missing the train,
Never getting wet
Because we don't believe in rain.

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