opus

dulcet … the night … holds far too few hours to attend you, pure … proper in twilight reverence your body’s song is my scripture the braille my fingers ache to read - sexy verse moonlight recites and orates to my blood longing’s lullaby spoken glyph-by-glyph and plopped like sugar on my tongue where it attends … yours … speak to me with your coy and curvy whispers such fair flesh tells an epic tale, erotic few know the language but I am fluent I will listen with an anxious ear and reply in cursive on your dermal page my game? to raise those tiny little bumps - catkin skin that jumps to the touch, as my adept answers wind their warm way south to the source … come, let time stand still night is too fleeting and a delicious pas de deux awaits - a torrid tale of pillows and percale and moonbeamed madness … where minds and moans and motions are met in one rapturous breath … of breathlessness ghostwriter … and manuscript this tome is ours - you and I … lost to ourselves … to each other … to the world of whys and whatevers and to everything … but us.