Each night I lay in the bed we shared, lost in thoughts of you
I imagine you next to me, watching you sleep,
Tracing the curve of your hip,
Watching your chest slowly rise with each breath,
My lips lingering on your milky shoulders.
If I were an artist I’d spend lifetimes
painting every perfect part of you
I would sculpt an exquisite figure of you
My fingertips remember the smoothness of every line, so clearly.
If I was a musician I would compose symphonies
Purely on the sounds of your breath in my ear,
Pleasure coming forth as I explore you, implore you
You are my instrument, my fingers, trembling and tentative
Play gently upon you like a favorite song,
Of which I never tire to hear, again and again.
But I am a writer at heart, so these hands
For now are content to hold you and stroke you
Once you leave this bed again
They will honor you with furious delight,
Dancing upon these pages to record
The delicate beauty of you, in ways only I can see.
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