I want to read poetry together on the bedroom floor over a bottle of rum or whiskey (but not wine, red or white), sitting close

so I can feel your breath as you enunciate along my favorite lines, and I, as you hand me the book, will try to hold the beauty of your favorite sonnet in my mouth, to let it fall from my lips full of soul, full of heart; sitting close on the bedroom floor with our legs tucked under us, and the pale moon light beaming in through the blinds. And when the bottle is all but finished, when I’ve let the last line drop from my tongue, you will press your mouth against mine and fuck me. We will make love on the floor in the moon light, heavy with the promised sadness of dead poets' pens.