Lone is the word of my desire:
Yearn.
Forevermore of her.
Oh, how I yearn.
Yet, of no lewd needs.
To want or lust I do not.
Gentle are my longings:
A caress of slender limbs,
Enshrouding me in amour's warmth;
Contours of satin amber skin,
Lines followed by fingertips of mine;
In sweet mirth, the lips do meet;
To meekly unfurl delicate petals,
And taste her flower's nectar.
To hold and cherish and honour,
And harbour in taut arms,
Atop sheets of rippled ivory.
This, and more will I do
'til my days end.
END