COUNT FUCKULA.

How much do I love you?
Let me count the ways.
If I were to develop an obsessive compulsive disorder
that rendered me incapable of doing nothing
but talking about you twenty four seven
for multiple minutes, moments, milliseconds
of the day
everyday
it would still not be enough.
I already have an obsession, and that obsession
is you.
I like the way you taste and I like how you taste me:
Edible, incredible, I could live off these pure shores
and that smile with appealing teeth,
pearly whites with skin, soft, slick and tight against me.
I am the air between your toes and the space between those fingers
belongs to me.
To my hands and mine alone.
My compulsion is to spend time with you.
Be with you.
Hot, sweaty, gasping and grinding,
feeling you inside me.
Feeling inside you is home.
I want to reach into you, delve deeper until
we have no secrets
and we have a love more true than this.
Right now I think you are perfect.
Perfect for me.
Your face is a contortionist.
A curved naughty smile makes me ache and need,
a frown of confusion makes me melt.
I could count every animal, lamp post, bar, star and car
and still we would not have the correct number.
For an infinity you can always add one.
The only possible way to count my love
would be in breaths and heart beats.
In veins that are trained to make this machine work,
a mold that is broken and shaped anew by you.
I love you.
I love you.
We are not two but one.