you're a writer's dream.
a poet's fantasy.
a soaked dream in satin sheets.
you were the reality conceived by my longing dreams.
the timeless caress in soaked sheets.
I die to have you.
I die just to be.
I die dreaming of you.
the static energy that belongs in the pages of you and me.
words become like whispers just searching in the night.
a lonely prayer.
a sensual goodbye.
I toss and turn.
as I dream.
torn between the reality of wanting you and not having what is mine.
I become like a child.
crying though my tears never dry.
till your soft words cut me.
they never tell me goodbye.
so I bleed out on blank pages.
I fall asleep to you like a lullaby.
I try writing symphonies.
poetry that love can never tell a lie.
I see you in dreams.
I fantasize till I squirm at night.
my hands slow.
bounded to my crotch.
a touch is overdue.
heavily breathing.
yet all I see is you.
the poet's greatest temptations wait to be exposed.
yet you're not a temptation.
you're the kiss I barely know.
yet you feel so good.
you make me feel whole.
I smile though your absence aches me.
the pain is beyond poetic.
I want heaven.
but dream of a seductive hell.
a erotic mind unaware that it's slipped.
as I watched.
as your little black spaghetti dress fell.
no words.
no whispers.
only sighs.
moans of such divinity.
your panties lifeless.
I play a dangerous game.
in a trance.
caught up in a spell.
I know the feeling too well.
as I make my move.
like chess.
you're my muse and erotically my queen.
my Mami.
I live in a romanticized reality of you.
that you will be mine.
yet you already are.
endless ballads of poetry that is conceived by the lovesick frontal lope of my mind.
yet blisters they'd kill me if you wasn't mine.
for this I dream of you.
yet chivalry isn't dead.
and my poetry about you is never blind.
©darkmocha
D