I’m counting out my pleasure
in a sequence, laid so bare,
odd numbers leave me hanging,
incomplete and in despair.
Every touch, a calculation,
symmetry must reign,
double down on ecstasy
to balance out the pain.
I moan like math,
in rhythms laid so precise,
seeking even endings
in the grip of my vice.
If I climax once,
the second must ensue,
can’t bear the thought of stopping
at a solitary view.
Edge of madness, teetering,
where numbers hold the key,
twice as sweet, the release
when it’s even, can’t you see?
A cycle of desire,
where satisfaction must align,
in the order of numbers,
where pleasure intertwines.
Tangled in the sheets,
where digits dance and twirl,
craving that completion
in a perfectly paired whirl.
My sighs are counted whispers,
echoed in the dark,
each gasp a step closer
to the even mark.
So here I lie in wait,
for the count to set me free,
in the grip of numbers,
where I find my symmetry.
In this bed, I’ve plotted
every line and curve so right,
making sure every ending
meets the even of the night.