This
Contributed by
iansharman on 15/05/10
This.
This perfection of form.
This object of my desire.
I run my hands over your curves;
For how many years have I wanted this?
How many times have I dreamt of this moment?
Holding you.
Touching you.
My touch elicits sound.
Music.
A long, low moan.
A chord, a symphony.
So long have you been out of reach,
That which completes me.
I hold you in my arms,
I wrap you around me,
My arms enfold your body,
And the music we make,
Perfection.
This is all I desire.
This.
