Durmiendo.

I've noticed lately that when I write a poem about sex, or just a general romantic piece, it tends to have a really depressing, sometimes spiteful or vengeful tone. I have no idea why it comes off this way; I'm not a sad person, and I never look back on lustful experiences with remorse, shame, or sorrow. I usually write a poem in one draft, without stopping and without looking back to make many edits, as it typically feels like the most authentic method of conveying my emotions. So I'm clueless as to why my most dreamy and ecstatic experiences are coming off as despondent and, dare I say, bland. I'll work on it, I suppose.

Example of a great experience that turned out looking strange and melancholy, although I did my best to edit a few lines to make it seem a bit less...weird:

Ebbing, folding into the sands of time
each day smeared into the next.
Your pastels, your eager brush strokes
blending my skin into yours.
The sweet taste of ambidextrous grey matter.
Exploring with a forked tongue
a supple frame.
Medusa cobras spitting bluffs in the dark
chiding competing lovers with a sigh.
Tar and feather your blooming tulips.
Tossing wallets into wells,
we're not wasting any time.
Only for lush daydreams, heavy breathing;
bloodshot eyes gaining a new repose.
We never checked the weather
just played Taps with rugged soles.
Exhaling plumes of cancer
while dancing in the rain,
reminiscing cloudy intimacies,
the echo of a playful palm upon bare skin.
Cross-country watermarks;
two loving souls, ambling freely
like smoke curling off the ash.