The fire of your love for Rosaline
Will dim like wicks that have run out of wax,
A useless flaccid thing, it will hang limp
As if the thought of her doused you with ice.
But do not fear; that flick'ring flame of yours
Will still burn hot, but not for Rosaline.
Even now, as you arch up, and are pushed down
By my own hands, I notice that you call
Out not for any girl called Rosaline,
The only name gasped by your lips is mine.
Your moans are not for love forlornly lost,
Instead these sweet submissive sounds are saved
For me, and likewise savored by my ears,
Just as my eyes do cherish that bright gleam,
That startled flutter of your dark-lashed eyes,
When heat descends onto your smooth, bared skin.
A candle burns for you, here in my hand,
It drips its warm desire on your flesh,
It streaks its wax across your muscled chest,
It pools its melted heat atop your thighs,
Spilling its excess wherever it may.
You smile as it bites you with its heat,
As rivulets of wax traverse your skin
And leave a signature of pleasured pain
Until all other lovers you forget,
And you remember nothing now except
The splatter of delicious heat that falls
To your impatient body from my hand,
A seal upon the letter of our bond,
A red wax emblem stamped with both our lips:
With your lips' pleading, and with my lips' kiss.