So it is, dearest, that we meet again,
if but in poem written by my own pen.

Lately your actions have had great effect,
the influence of touches was rather direct.
'Tis but a wrong resort my mind seems to take,
your love is not sound and your touches are fake.

On this cold summer night, though, I see the light,
your demeanor is friendly, your touches just right!
'T may be this body that yearns for a touch,
To be honest I cant help I made it as such.
Thus is the source of this feeling unveiled,
'tis merely lust to which this body does yield.
Brain and grey matter have now understood,
'Tis but a case of proverbial female wood.

Sorry for causing this grave situation,
surely there should be other ways for my elation.