Night time is the best time to write,
for there's nothing between us—
no clothes of shame, no name to borrow,
just raw breaths curling in the dark.
My erotic mind and your naked self,
blending like ink upon parchment sheets.
I pour my words upon your lips like a kiss,
each syllable a tremor down your spine.
Painting your body with vivid imageries,
undressing you in metaphorical lingerie,
silk spun stanzas, loops of rhythmic charm,
stitched with forbidden rhymes, a tender remark.
Every phrase rolls over your collarbone,
every verse a hand that explores the unknown,
tongues of consonants taste your skin,
vowels burn with passion on your hips.
Transparency fades in the hush of night,
and letters become the very flesh.
My poetry dissolves into your thighs,
and your sighs respond, my poem replies.