When I read your poems
I feel that I've slipped into your mind,
where all the mysteries lie
of which you speak
As if you've parted silken sheets.

You and smile
are synonymous.
When I think of you
a nimbus crown appears 'round my head,
How can this be,
when we've never met?
Oh, baby, baby,
let's take a ***** and bury "yet"?

I send you a white dove, my love,
in bits 'n bytes, not very romantic,
though when carefully reconstructed
a key to liberate thy chastity, I'm unrepentant.

Let my words be fingers
to take the tension from your neck,
to ease your shoulders from the day just spent,
with hands and arms to embrace your waist,
and trace the contour of your hips,
and continue thus along your thighs,
with your hands meeting mine,
divine, we will make this hour,

In the privacy of your lavorium,
in the glowing candles,
in the sensually scented air,
in the rising moisture,
in the warm embrace of your bath,
in these pleasures,
I am.

Take these words
and pleasure thyself,
I will be your moan.

Upon all things holy,
you are my altar,
before thee I bend.