Sometimes pen to paper is my only touch
A sensual congress of eager words, fumbling ink
Caressing strokes of wet to dry on crowded sheets
Wrinkled with sweat, daubed with tears
And other moistures
Ah! Leave me but this love
When all others are
Faint memories on a horizon!
Carol Borsello
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/coyote-morning-12-2-11/
