These words will fail me,
for how could words alone
speak of this illicit longing?
Pen stroke caresses on pages in
blinding absence of fingers begging
to trace your braille confessions.
Can parchment hold this much
definitive ache curling the edges?
If words but could, they would burn slow
down margins seasoned with your scent,
as I script your name in cursive filigree on
my skin, inhaling you before the ink dries.
My lips recite you, vocabulary exchanged
for body language in intimate explanation.
Knowing I would be rhapsodized in your rhyme,
redefined in the heat of your articulate rhythms.
Breathless pronunciations decipher graffiti thrusts,
leaving indelible stains on manuscripts of lust.
If words but could, they would never be enough.
Still, I have memorized you chapter and verse
plagiarized you in chains of museless curse,
idolized you on metaphorical knees of coerce.
As if such carnal explicitness could be done justice.
Seduction's spell in syllabic diction, if words
but could they would shed this shell of fiction.
Might I find the words that will not fail me