She tastes her touch, honey on hand writes me in moans only longing can understand.
Ink and Honey
In candle’s hush, she writes the night,
One hand lost in secret light,
The other spills her silken thought,
On paper warm with verses caught.
A finger trails where pleasures bloom,
Then brushes lips, like soft perfume—
She tastes the fire her body knows,
While passion through her ink still flows.
She crafts me letters, bold yet shy,
A moan disguised in every “why,”
Each curve of script, a whispered plea,
Each sigh of ink, a call to me.
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