My fingers tickle against The soft fibers of the first page In a manuscript written with dedicated ardence. I admire the ink uncials, left behind By eloquent whispers passed from Your eyes, to My lips. From your tongue To my skin. Salacious words succulent That permeate the thick paper, Like heavy breaths from a prurient Night. I savor the memory, Turning over the page to find Blank linen sheets left awaiting, for letters and punctuation Until, poem after poem, A new chapter again we commence.