She was poetry written in the perfect cursive curves of the devils smile
and an angels hip
the lost launguage found only in Aphrodites blood
the beauty of tragedy
and the birth of romance
were only mere ink stains on her fingertips
the syllables of tears that filled the ocean
and drowned every wave of heartache  
the stars and the stories of the moon
told in a voice between whisper and dream
and to read her was
to feel her breath along your neck
and her teeth bite
through both bone and soul
her every word to grip
and stroke the fires of your flesh
and before the last line of the page
to spill the life from between your legs
and have it crash through the ceiling
and explode and scatter
against the black velvet night
of her passion and desires
and turn you into a page
and a poem
within the depths
of the heart of her soul