desert pages

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.

via *

*Inspired by the words of an artist I know