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On Poetry I stare at her fairness
with glints of desire
filling my lustful eyes.
Yet I don’t want
to tamper with purity,
untouched and smooth.
But how I long to trace
my fingertips across
her snow-white skin.
I start with one
gentle stroke and
wait for a reaction.
Hoping she knows that
after even just one touch,
I can’t resist her.
In time, I pick up
momentum, moving
against her with force.
When I’m done,
I gaze at her deflowered form,
beaming with satisfaction.
