I fantasise of you wearing exotic clothing from the poesy you’re portraying. I probe the prose I know just what you’re saying. Cedillas on letters, smooth curves of your words I want to bite the lid of this pen making love to your poetry, with my penetrating words.
She was tequila rose, he the Lynchburg oak. She said more with one look, than any word she spoke. Warmth, emancipated by her soul, melts away at the snow. Revealing a taste of what all want to know.