That thou art an instrument of beauty.
May I play my fingers lovingly along the length of thy neck
as I draw my bow tenderly across the sensuality
- Of thy strings.
Nestle the small of thy back –
Into the sanctuary of mine arms hold,
as I lay cheek alongside the poise of thy voluptuous veneer.
Thus what chord doest I strike be the music of
- Thine heart.
Thus my love of thee ‘tis not –
Merely orchestral maneuvers in the dark,
but sweet symphony of mine emotion and undying devotion.
Accentuated by mine adoration, enunciated by
Lying thee down in velvet case –
I am but amiss of the melody of thine soul,
still I shall dream of the concerto of the music we did make
‘til I may next caress an encore of thine hearts
© Charles Coakley Simpson 2008