Can you lend me a pen my love, I want
to write a sonnet in praise of your thighs
and then a haiku or two to your eyes.
I’ll scrawl lipstick stanzas over shoulders
and chest, they’re the best, then pull out
my phone to get a good shot of your gun.
Your name I’ll write, on the palm of the hand
I press to my mound, first thing when it’s light
then last thing at night, to give me a thrill.
Truth to tell, my dear, there’s not an hour
of my day or night, no not a single
minute, that does not have you (pause) in it.
