The sultry evening falls like the silk upon my shoulders I kiss your throat as you write to your mother It conflicts you, does it not? The memory of her weeping and the very act of your hands One clutching your pen, the other gliding over the inside of my thigh Both ever so foolishly stained in the purest of black It certainly conflicts me, my love, for all my tender heart longs for is this: Stain me Grip my hair, press me harder onto your lap, blacken me Let me see the sweetest stars— And may they be sweeter than the relish of raspberries upon my mouth Write to your mother about me I shall kiss you for it And thus, as we clasp hands dreamily, become your muse
spring is approaching and I am happy and this may be my best poem and I love it dearly