My velvet brush dips deep and lingers there in the warm inkwell of your endless desire the ink of passion flows for me tonight so I may show you how It feels my muse to be so truly needed by an ardent lover I hunger to write poems of love's power upon the warm supple parchment of your skin secret words that only you can comprehend till my brush runs dry and I return to dip again in ink made by god for the calligraphy of desire
W. I. Boucher September 2, 1999