The Real Grown and Sexy 05/09

Slow down, playa,

and stroll to my swagga,

timeless

like the sway of my hips,

I walk past you,

so you can catch a glimpse

of where you want to be,

somewhere between

your dreams and my sheets?

Indulge me

with your intellect,

not some misconstrued

and imbibed use of the English language,

while you caress my beauty

with hands too soft to ignore

and a scent that lingers

beyond my washed pillow cases.

Drench me in your masculinity,

leave me without question

as to who you are

so much so until I don't ask

and your lips speak nothing

but sweet kisses

and devotion

beyond the hours

between 2 am and

that other woman's bed.

I am sexy,

not sweating my prowess

through my pours

on a dance floor

in garments

intended for tomorrow's return,

or painting your imagination

thin with what little I have on.

Guess again,

because I sit on the edge

of every man's desire,

and slide across his lips

until he speaks

my name,

but all he can say is

"Lovely".