The First-Grade Doesn't Teach this Language

Place the earbuds in your back pocket
Where your Samsung cellular phone usually resides
Saddled to your fine ass--customarily the right side
Where it's something I've come to notice
Watching your thighs strum together while walking
rag & bone the brand name of your snickering blue jeans
Them smooth heels at the back of your olive colored feet
Housed in a pair of Valentino open-toed shoes

The first-grade doesn't teach this language

A tingling sensation is fucking with me
The cleft of your back a beautifully authored crease
Suggesting your ample breasts are ripe plums
Creating stress unaccustomed a Lace Trim V-Neck Halter
The sleeve tattoo lining your left forearm accentuating
Accompanied by the aroma of Eau de Parfum
That hypnotic feminine piped-piper of fragrance 
Disarming my virtue while eliciting masculine lust

The first-grade doesn't teach this language

I think I have seen you on prior occasion
If not | You're the women in my unabated dreams
The one I continually envision from her backside
Building a wall will never keep me from seeing you
For until I catch up with your fine ass
Interlock my left hand with your right hand
Stroll the avenue as you rock your beige floppy sun hot
All the while listening | to your thighs strum together

The first-grade doesn't teach this language

© 2018 by emmett wheatfall

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