My pen begs for paper
like I would reach for your hand,
to touch the white stretch of heaven
and feel suspended in what must be love.
Like ink my veins pump the fuel
that burns in my eyes and reflects in yours.

You hide behind sarcasm
and climb high into the branches of
your blooming wit, but
I see you blushing through your smile.
It rests upon the edge of paradise
and I want a taste of your bliss.

You make me want to believe
, that we could be pure if we try
and simultaneously throb for a devil's release
as I ache for your body, wrapped
around these hollow bones of mine.

Is it wrong to dream, when you tread my mind sore
in the golden hours of the day
you hang from my lashes,
and you turn to pitch black
and the moon and the stars-
you are the night that loves me
when you lull me to sleep
and the night that falls sudden
when the world turns me dry.

I write to create, to inspire...
I breath to live and love to breath...
But foremost I love living for your breath
that breathes fresh into these bones.
You inspire.
You create.
I love to live, but only-
for loving you.