Hashtag #PenthouseProblems

Well, well, well—this is life at the top, tipsy
on her way to drunk on the top floor of the hotel,

the lobby smelling like salty chlorine, and the
pandemic a mere afterthought, a somewhat comical
sigh, I watch younger girls swim, try to attract
younger men like flies, advertising their light,

I couldn't give a shit,

I still have the gap of you lingering between
my knees, still have the mark on my neck,
the cut on the inside of my cheek,

an insatiable thirst.

I had plausible deniability, hundreds of channels,
the room booked on your credit card, and a restaurant
named after a utensil kitty corner to the room, art
placed on walls by idots with no taste,

I want to tell you about my swollen tongue,
I want to tell you about the length of your penis
against your leg, how you keep it in the left leg
of your pants when natural, how you

sigh when I fist it, the sound that emanates from your
throat when I put you in my mouth; I want to find a
word that describes it perfectly,

I want to tell you how I fell asleep with your arm on my hip,
woke up with your erection against my back.

I want to tell you how you hiss through your teeth
when I bend myself forward when I'm on top of you,
I want to tell you how you sigh,

still searching for the right word
to map you out in poetry, unravel you,

tell you how your face breaks open when you smile,
but that sound when you orgasm

is what I'm really after here,

but I'm not drunk enough to tell you any of this.