Violets are blue, but not as blue as your eyes. Kisses leave your lips damp and swollen, redder than the reddest rose...

Poetic fancy! I know you don't expect it of me. You're the poet, mate. You know the words to say. Your voice caresses each syllable, the melodious tone raising goosebumps on my flesh in sweet anticipation of the hands that follow where your eyes dare touch.

I have no poetry to share. My words are wrapped in silence, in the quiet adoration of your perfect body.

I whisper your name... And you hear all that I cannot say.

-- THE END --

May 2008