Quietly whispered,
The words spoken without envy;

The divine thirst is for you,
In a myriad of liquids yours
Is the only quenching,
There is nothing as good to the soul
As kissing the nape of your neck
When I come home,
I hold your hands beside you
And gather them in a harvesting,
The touch dominant of my existence.

I will be thinking:
This pleasure is all mine,
A promise holy like time,
You are my Prophesy
Spoken with every minute.