In a sense,
I want your
sweet,
sweet,
innocence.

Ignite the incense,
and dim the lights--
I want to dispense a massage tonight
free of expense.

Ooh baby,
you're so tense
when I slather warm oil
up and down your back--
it arches when my hands slink down,
silently sliding the length of your slippery skin
so surely,
you stay satisfied with your soul
being soothed softly,
shortly,
and serenely --
these seconds never last.

Strictly speaking,
your supple skin is singing
songs of praise to my fingertips,
styled in such a way that is oddly
reminiscent of a song sent from the fifties
just to screw with my mind.

The air is heavy with the scents of
sandlewood and cedar cinder smoke
that licks your lungs,
sags in the air,
and saturates the room.

The subtle, sly, pressure I apply
against your slick back swims
with a sexy swagger to your center
from the sender that shimmies
shimmering circles surmounting the spine.

Baby, my hands are like the the silk in the way
that everything is so smooth, like slithering
snakes tracing themselves on your back with a
stencil -- it is so precise how I caress your dull aches,
saying,
"Baby, I'll take your pain for the sake of sharing
because I want to make you feel beautiful and
you are worth it."