Yours

My dearest lover, do I long
For Your body to be the ink
By which You mark your lust
My skin is Your blank slate;
 Your canvas
 Your paper

Your sweet materpiece lay waiting
My vulnerability laid bare
For Your concupiscent thoughts
Do I wish for You to decorate upon
My suggestive flesh now Yours
Hanging by the chains in which I cry
In a frantic plea for You
As You free your animalistic urges
For Your desires to now be satiated
As my jubilation so freely flows

For You, my dearest lover
   Do I long to be;
The story in which You write
The art in which You create
For my skin is Your blank slate;
 Your canvas
 Your paper