It is the summer that burns my heart
so pure
a virgins soul clean of touch
but a soiled heart broken and used
so artisticaly done
and willingly accepted
the memories of touches past
seer  upon my mind far beyond
the words on the page
the look of pure ink

Your angel kiss is my muse
your lips my ground to
grow from
my roots have planted with your own
you are my own
and I your willing
willing repeat
willing constituent
willing sea
willing
to wait
to kiss your wounds
and lap at your words that have captured my devotion
you are my story
the shape of my nerves
I feel you in each breath
you are my own and I wish
for nothing more