Powdered Sugar Sex

Your ski slope shoulders are the meanest love poem every written
I often think that powdered sugar looks like snow
On a count of three: ready, set, go
and my breasts peak underneath
your fingers, they skate
indolent circles over my stomach
and I arch in invitation for you to take
the easiest route down, but no
your ski slope shoulders tense
in calculated anticipation
and I brave my knees because I know
I’m too weak to beat you in this race
to finish