The engine roars as the cold air whips my hair, Passion is driving full throttle while I ride shot gun.

We fly through the night, speeding towards our destination, You. Population 1, soon to be 2.

I become a polyglot in your presence, my body speaks fluently, a langue I’ve never heard uttered aloud. Words I did not know, tumble out of my mouth.

A single stroke through my scalp is more than enough to cast a spell over me. Your hands all over me conduct an orchestra a soft murmurs and whimpers, a song that never ceases.

I am soft clay, begging to be thrown on the wheel.
Spin me, shape me, fire me, break me