Knowledge of Desire

In the quiet halls of knowledge, where old stories softly tread,
We wandered 'neath the volumes where the deepest thoughts are wed.
Her glance, a daring author whose tales were yet untold,  
In the quiet rows of history, our silent love unfolds.
 
Beneath the watchful eyes of poets long deceased,
Our hands composed a language, each touch a whispered verse increased.
Her fingers wandered, tracing lines, discovering as they roam,
The growing tension, firm and taut, a rising, throbbing tome.
 
By the stage of Shakespeare, where drama's spirits dance,
Our script of sighs and tender grips did fervently enhance.
With every touch, her hands composed on skin a living braille,
Her palms on whispered secrets, over cloth so thin and frail.
 
Through the verdant garden where wild verses bloom and spread,  
Our hands like seeking sonnets found new rhythms in their tread.
Her fingers brushed the volumes that in shadows boldly press,  
A touch igniting fires, in silent, sweet caress.
 
In chronicles of history, where whispered secrets dwell,  
Our breaths and bodies mingling, cast a potent, heady spell.
Her lips, devout and ardent, upon my flesh did play,  
An ode to joyous feasting, in fervent disarray.
 
Amongst philosophic musings, where deepest truths lie bare,  
Her essence, sweetly yielding, suffused the charged air.
Damp with the ink of passion, her sacred script did flow,  
A testament to longing, where only lovers go.
 
In the final chapter, beneath the dimming light,  
Our narrative found climax, well hidden from the sight.
In pages of our making, where words of fire blend,  
The library held our secret, a tale that never ends.