moisten your fingertips

and turn my page

a fragrance wafting

your exquisite longing

for my inked illuminations

the duration

of plumule promises

etched on my breast


alight in the moment

on the coated horizon

of a day that turns earth

in a cryptic timeless birth

as you seek love’s bidding

on the dawning skyline

of the braille you caress

raised on the emptiness


in the sweet skin

of my holy lines


Love’s true doctrine should be lived, not written.

© M.G. Iannucci 2018

Art: Fields of Eden

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