Unfinished Business With A Pseudo-Conservative Who Apparently Wants It Slow

The candle goes out
Poof, like a sunburnt romance, 
As the shadows roll-up and vanish
Into the conjurer's cardboard lair. 

There, but not there. 

Plucking up courage,  
Boom, like gravity from the sky,
I fall on your lap, flowers dipped
In honeysauce,the smell skimming
Down your thighs, before

The hand arrives. 

Dreaded swish, the flowers squirming 
In air, gravity all too clear, fleeting
Mid-air despair, as Hello, whispers
The dust-baked ground, near, near. 

Not fair,

I scream into her eyes, glimmering
Stones showcasing the birth of desire 
In the dusty dark, as I gradually
Realize her burning fear; for all I
Care, I hope I am 

Nearly there.