They are separated in this room by their words,
how they handle them, her the novelist, on one side,
naked on the couch, him the poet, on the other side,
stripped bare of his coverings, legs apart on the chair.
Their words have the power to touch,
their personal touch the energy to entice.
Each will pleasure their own this night
while they read each other's delight.
Like opening her book, she begins
by spreading her legs, a capital "V",
talented fingers expose the pink parts
inside of her vulvae sheath,
like tracing an opening paragraph,
she sucks the reader in, leads them
down a path she wants them to follow.
He comes along, writing his first line
with the thick pencil, his penal proportion grows,
the simile, his thumb is like her tongue,
his fingertips her lips, draining the blood
from his head by squeezing the end.
With a Kegel flex, the carnal sap re-enters
to swell and grasp her attention.
So she hides two fingers deep inside,
as if keeping a surprise ending secret.
He is stroking to discover her plan.
They both move through the body
of their work with increased intensity,
her with the vowels, "ohh, ahh, ahh, ohh,"
him with the consonants, "mmm, huh-huh-huh, mmm."
Finally, she closes her eyes, silently lip syncing
the last chapter. As her rhythm slows,
he sees she is coming near the end so he speeds up
his verse to a fierce pace. With a harmony
only true lovers have, they both reach
their endings together. Her breath is held in release,
the finale well worth the build up through the chapters.
His climax fully exposes the juicy metaphor;
the last line white as clean sheet of paper.
Both so very pleased by each other's creation,
they have written so well together this night.
Originally published January 2009