No Words, Really

Be still, my love, I still am shy, hard hands, I know that pumicestone could not erase the rough, I shall be gentle though, your skin speaks softly of peaches and of heavy cream. I breathe as if it were the very first occasion, your tiny aromatic glands a trillion, maybe more have come to peek at me, to tease erotic breath into my inner self. How silly, Pierre Cardin and company, reality does beg to differ, I have been invited to, allowed to stay awhile, the feast of woman's own I kiss your lids, so paperthin, and think of Sandman who, each night enjoys the sight the glitter in those eyes, round, sleepy pupils stroking me half-closed with genuine love. I drool a bit, knowing you like just as I do, to share it all, to taste each other's dreams Lie still, my love, I have arrived at the raised junction of your jaw, the Roman cheek, born in the snow, a glow of nearly Fuchsia mixed with rouge, and yes, I am as eager, let me kiss that mouth of yours, now silently alert, I feel a PVC beneath your breast a stumble of your heart, for us yet not to worry, dear, we're chosen by the gods. You stir (I thought it would be me) , as if to ask what we already know, so let us dream my love, the night is ours to keep not even spirits will disturb eternal sleep.