The Reader and Writer's Sex Dimension

I have forced myself into a locked room of chastity
to have monogamous relations with you.
In this bookplace, I am sealing myself away from the masses that surround me
as I type my way to you.
You’re my literary escape. Your arousal is my freedom.
If my words can set your senses free, then a shared pretty word is sex to me.
You and I make love between the lines,
my reader,
and I am your writer.

No freer consummation in existence be
than the one that I discuss with you now—
the one in which two adults, mentally sane, that haven’t seen each other
squeeze the mind of the other so often.
I imagine you aflame with passion,
and you can know that I am always thinking of you.
The poetic sheets of line and line clothe us,
and how we fit into such a poem is too much for
a child’s eyes,
but the bright lights that show us in our artful scribe
clip an image of our strange united form
locked in some ancient Chinese position
with thighs and chests and backs and lustful eyes
imprisoned by the gaze of the other’s
and all those things written in the Chinese Handbooks of Sex
displayed on the background of a world of white.
And in the glorious caption
(for they had to showcase the display in a trendy arts museum),
the sexual form is named “The Reader and the Writer”.
It is Yin and Yang for the world to see clearly
what it was that birthed the universe.