To write for you, or of you, is to predetermine a message; rather just to write a thing or two, a line or two, will unmoor this unsteady cargo in my brain. I can feel the soft cleats let loose the soggy sinuous ropes that tether me and now, for you, I unfurrow my brow; my sail.

It can't really be much, a bit of praise perhaps. I'm freed from conventionality [freed to combine words in haste] as I focus my sights on you. Perhaps I'll describe the chambers of my heart, whose very flesh and iron rich blood would deceive even the most skilled scalpel and challenge it to reveal a love. Until now, my purpose was unclear and as yet the journey goes on, only a vague trajectory plotted; but this course includes you.

My mind and body beg for you. In a moment of smooth flesh embrace I find a small guide to follow. Ecstasy followed by a caravan of moist thoughts into which I sink [I allow myself to sink] without questioning or arguing to know more. You are beyond reproach; my mind finds the extremities of my flesh and each one, each toe and finger, sounds back with approval.

I'm alive in your presence. You have reawakened my flesh and my reason. I long for more from myself as I'm fueled with more of you. I need to rediscover myself when you are away from me. My own hands look foreign and unreal; they are yours now, as am I - and only in your presence am I whole with myself. A love supreme.