in the warm inkwell of your endless ardor.
The ink of passion flows for me tonight
and I would show you how it feels,
my muse, to be truly needed.
I would write poems of love's power
on the parchment of your skin,
secret words, that only you can understand
until my pen runs dry and I return
to dip again,
in ink created by ecstasy
for the calligraphy of desire.
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