His skin

 

His skin is the parchment

upon which I write

secrets words

with my tongue -

stifled symphonies and

secret sonnets

as he moves only

to my rhythm.

Wrists are bound

by the chains

that bind him

to the easel,

and to me.

Fingers tighten around

his neck, as

he struggles

to breathe against

the confines of

the tightness.

His body is my

journal, my diary,

my blank sheet,

of paper.

His body

becomes my

canvas as I begin

to create.

To write.

To paint.

Filled with a carnal

desire of

brushstrokes

and calligraphy.

Secured tight to

a flatbed easel,

Passions spill onto

skin. With

gentle strokes

and

savage licks.

I want you to

be of my creation.

Painted.

Possessed.