The game would be,
To write poetry,
With cold water,
And an art brush,
On the rosebud,
Tender skin,
Closed,
Dusky brown eyes,
Straining,
To guess each word,
written,
On your exposed,
Silky,
And hairless back,
My fingers shivering,
In an effort,
To remember,
I am just a poet,
And not a lover...
Loosing control,
Only in thoughts.
All untouched skin blushing,
Like undressed childeren,
Just out of their baths,
Turning deep pink,
The color,
Which i have never seen.