Autobio?

Ok, so I revised this into a vilanelle-ish poem, in order to tighten it, but I'm not satisfied with the poem and view it as a process-exercise, not a final product.

Put your hands a little higher;
 kneed your fingers into my back.
 I can almost feel the breaking of the glass.

Is love no more than the total of time we spend together,
minus the time we spend apart?
Put your hands a little higher,

whisper poems into my neck like kisses,
midrashic musings over coffee:

"God created Eve to be Adam's eye-candy",
"I alway thought Adam was a douchebag",
and stuff like that -
 I can almost feel the breaking of the glass.

Or is love more like the warm water, soft, and flowing,
that leaves my hands chapped when I do your dishes?

Your fucking dishes! Politics be damned!

 Me, the feminist, re-enacting a scene from a 1950s movie:
Now that's love, baby! Pass me the teacup.
Put your hands a little higher;
I can almost feel the breaking of the glass.