Your soul is my binding,
your skin is my pages,
our love is a book,
that I long to pen.

My thoughts transmitted,
traced by my fingertips
in a trail of goosebumps,
that I rub in with my palm.

My intentions overflow,
spilled from their container,
with my feathered quill,
I start another chapter.

Page after page,
thought after thought,
kissed into your skin,
till the plot becomes apparent.

As the pages get short,
rereading is necessary,
more loving ink pours
until at last the covers close.

But, the series continues.