The virgin pages of this sketchbook
were deflowered by charcoal and
graphite in the desert.
Sweltering stars bore into my
retinas, begging me- urging me-
to paint their sparkles onto her cheekbones.
I could smell her lavender moans
mixing with the juniper and sage brush,
the aroma growing stronger with
every stroke of my pen
against the sighing pages.
Her flesh prickles when I tickle
beneath her earlobe; I tickle
the page, as smooth as skin and just
as mysterious Just as new.
Just as supple as her.
Page upon page glows like the
innocence that drips from her lips
as mine move across her thighs in
even, moonlit paths.
With the silence pulling her out of
my fingertips, the desert grows
ever hotter like our fire kissed
summer nights in June.
Silence and pen strokes.
Howling and longing.
She'll breathe on these virgin pages
and I'll live drunk on her caramel curls.
*Inspired by the words of an artist I know