Your Details

Sometimes you’re very crass

You don’t have bedside manner

No patience for teaching math

Don’t appreciate my witty banter

Your cooking is insane

I can never get enough

thoughtful independent strong

Selfless smart and tough

We’re taught growing up

To cherish what’s inside

Dont place much importance on looks

They will fade over time

I’d like to take the time to say

Because it’s not always spoken

When it comes to your looks

You’re untouchable composed and

I can’t get enough you do everything right

So I’ll elaborate give details specify:

They always say, “It’s what’s inside that counts.”

Sure. But let me say this —

What’s outside?

Got me fantasizing mid-meeting,

Zoning out when you bite your lip.

You’re fucking stunning.

No filter. No enhancement.

Your face? Natural beauty that hits harder than makeup ever could.

Eyes clench when you laugh —

And every time, my whole body responds.

Your skin —

Tan, soft, glowing with that tension under the surface.

I keep the lights on when we fuck.

Because watching you move,

Watching you take it — that’s part of it.

That’s all of it.

You put in work, and it shows.

Toned, tight, legs that wrap around me like a trap,

Ass that bounces back just right —

I flip you over and over again

Just to admire the damn angles.

And your tits?

Don’t even get me started.

Full, perky, perfect in my palms,

Piercings like exclamation points

On a sentence I wanna keep reading every night.

Since we’re talking specifics…

Going down on you is a ritual.

Your taste?

Sweet, warm, and addicting.

I crave it. No shame.

I’ve skipped meals for that flavor.

And the way you squirm, grab sheets,

Whimper “fuck” as my tongue works deeper —

That’s my reward.

You ride me like you’re proving something —

And maybe you are.

Every time you lean back,

Expose all that tension in your body,

I lose control, fast.

Sometimes I try to last —

But sometimes, I want you to break me on purpose.

I’ve had good sex.

But what we do?

It’s not just better — it’s dangerous.

My memory replays it without warning.

Cowgirl. Shower. That slow grind in the kitchen.

You in nothing but heels and that smirk?

That’s not sex — that’s religion.

When you wear those tight dresses,

Walk past like it’s nothing —

You don’t just turn heads.

You own space.

You walk in and Instagram girls disappear.

Space buns, that waist, those eyes?

Every curve you’ve got makes poetry pointless.

I know sometimes you look at the girls online,

Tiny bikinis, fake filters, smooth edits,

And wonder if you measure up.

Let me be clear —

I see them, but they don’t matter.

They’re props. You’re the show.

Ask me my wildest fantasy?

I don’t have to imagine it.

It already happened —

The last time we didn’t leave the bed all weekend.

The last time you pulled me back in after I finished,

And told me you weren’t done yet.

And I love that you’re not out here

Showing it off for likes.

But when you do it for me?

When you bend over, pull your shirt up just a little higher —

Goddamn.

That’s all I’ll ever need.