Letter, February 15, 2015

Your back, beloved, from your dimples down low to the nape of your neck — I always envision it as a sea of poetry, each rolling wave a poem, and the waves are infinite. Ah, to delve into that current, caress it tenderly, my fingers like sailors coursing the endless waters, drowning in this house of mystery. Let all poetry be, this is my poetry. This be the temple where I worship, where my sighs and longings unfold with the rolling of each wave.

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