You've got the fingertips of tarantulas,
lightly grazing against my hipbones,
simultaneous to your eager lips.
But you like the way you make me squirm.
And I play it up a little,
just to see you smile.
The snake inside your mouth called a tongue,
probes and prods in all the right places,
even when it's just as simple,
as a tiny space on my collarbone.
And there's a scream in the night,
so we cock our ears to hear.
"It's just the zombies," I mutter in jest,
"Shit," you say, "Just give me five."
I'm far too distracted currently,
by this creature called your body
to give a fuck about the zombie apocalypse.