A Lover's Rose

How sweet the sound of my own lover's voice!— he speaks to me of honeyed blossoms where, in tangled gardens, vine and rose rejoice, entwining both the spires and petals there. How soft the dew of my own lover's kiss!— anointing neck and trailing over breast. His lips of velvet speak to me of bliss, without a sound, as tongue to flesh is pressed. How gently glides his touch where hands are laid!— a feather first and then a firm caress; my body, in his hands, a goddess made, each swell and curve, my lover's to possess. At last my love and I, a twisting vine, wrap 'round where thorn and blooming rose combine.