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.
