You are my poetry; indigo blue, sandalwood scented ink…
Wordsmith of my heart; sole author of my earthly wants.
You are the physical embodiment of all that engages my senses.
In lucid daydreams, thoughts of you gather as lyrical phrases…
serenading the space above and beneath
the source of my life’s essence.
You are my poetry; subtle hues of passion…
words that seduce, and woo me…
the forever verses… where only you and I exist;
A legacy of romance encased in twin flame metaphors.
In a leather-bound book of parchment paper,
words and more words come spilling,
clinging to each other as I pen…
I love you …backward and forward…
In a language only you and I can understand.
You are my poetry; the impetus that brands my fevered flesh,
forging words that move right through me.
How I savor the taste of you on my lips,
the familiar of your touch…
so unrelenting in their seduction;
but in poetry, you and I are unleashed
as adjectives, nouns and verbs…
So much so, that the moon knows us personally.
You are my poetry; the Nairobi gold of a blazing noon sun;
the fascination of a new day that surrenders to
black velvet curtains drawn round me at night.
You are my poetry, the fevered forbidden dance
etched to grace the page of passionate prose.
You are my poetry….the inhales and exhales…
that leaves me shuddering; and like an
orgasm emanating from an un-robed muse,
You guide my hips to a bask beneath your afterglow
when words alone are impotent and silent.