sensual musings

If I give you a pen, will you write me a poem? I want to see how you hold the sacred instrument, how your fingers flute the shaft, the angle of your nib on vellum. I want to watch you calligraphy ink in graceful loops and elegant lines, to know the choreography of your forearm and elbow and shoulder flowing before the wavering reflections of your bluish-gray eyes. And I want to stand behind you, my nose on your ear, breathing your thoughts, as you feel mine, growing, asking, begging to write its own verse.

Upon your page I spill my ink, my vowels, my alliterations arcing alabaster across your dewy wildflowers and wanton waterfalls and whiskey lips whispering for willow. I will make you say verbs and then pronouns, loudly.

Write to me of ecstasy with your ten nibs. Write of plums and figs and the evening fragrance of sun soaked orchards. Tell me of rain and mist in the mountains and of rainbows underwater in clear streams. I want to know of maple and sap and fingers that glisten mature joy. And give to my audience of pores, your tongue; and suck of my skin, slowly, as a snail after the rain. Scent me your need, flower me your bloom, gift me your pearl. Be my flag, undulating in my sighs, into the night of candles and parchment sealed in wax.

I want to hear you say that with your lips pressed against mine and your fingers in my hair. I want to stare into your lakes of fire flickering a lust I've never known.

and drown in the depths of your desire, consumed of heat. Immolate me. Wilt me. Turn me to mist, to smoke, to a happy consumption.

Upon white linens, with my finger and thumb, I deflowered it. Inhaling the afternoon, filling my lungs with wind and rain and sun; and my lips with the sweetest perfume. Then I took the stem with a single thorn and pricked my finger. And painted hearts upon porcelain skin heaving a sea I was determined to sail.

and lay with me, after the storm, in waters calm. Dress me in the silk of your hair and hold my joy in your smile as we let our tributaries flow as one river.

Sleep nude. Crenel my merlon. Drape your head upon the shelf of my shoulder and whisper words wanton and wicked to send me to slumber; or plunder.

I see your kettle gently smoking. The fragrance of warm tea perfuming the air. And I want to pour the cane of my sugar upon your heat and dissolve into your mysteries. Smelt me. Into the air. And let my sweetness be as fingers on the wind and those that pass will know of a union beyond instinct, beyond the delights of the warm commerce.

I want you in public, someplace where we could be heard. And here, in this place of skirt and button and pearl, I have this desire to bend you over and make you hold your lust with silent lips. As a ship at night in a pounding sea. Your gusting sighs on edge of waking the crew. Your tremulous need as wet as the deck. Your hair, my rope. Your thigh, my wheel. Hold the rail. Curl your fingers around the shaft. Knuckles white, nails red. Your back undulating in quiet urge, hunger, rhythm. This is how I want you.