Shocked moans rent the air.
Your talented fingers pluck my strings,
Don’t they, my Darling?
The man with the silver, bladed tongue.
Not just useful for speaking, Pet.
Your hands stroke silhouetted hills,
Create a storm with a symphony of ****** notes.
The pounding of my heart is the drum,
A background to our orchestra, you said.
You command the stage with no audience.
Just you and me, like always, my Love.
You test the boundaries and break them
Yet you always go back for more?
Our next song is called Slow Dance.
I wait for more,
Hesitant touches, slow moving fingers,
You always make me beg.
This is our symphony, my Dove.
With a silent audience.