A Letter To My Imaginary Friend

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What’s this?

Ah, yes...

I am moved
by another simple thought
and it rolls me once more
into a beautiful dream:
to take you within my arms
and lay you down so gently
in a great cloud of pillows
arrayed within a shroud
of Venetian lace,

in an ambience adorned and prettied
with lily bouquets all a-glow
by the light of a tallow flame,
with the scent of exotic
perfumed oils and pastilles of India
wafting languorously through the air;
to feel the lithe satin of your forme
as it becomes so discreetly unveiled
beneath my fingertips,
with the touch of soft feathers
and scarves of China silk,
plush fur and fresh-plucked rose petals
alighting so daintily and so elegantly
upon your sleek, naked skin.

The silence of our evening
would be broken only by your quiet sighs
as I caressed you lovingly and endlessly
in the peaceful hush of calm reflection
in which you lay there before me,
leaving you startled
with tension and apprehension
as you felt suddenly so exposed,
utterly defenseless
as you moved beyond mere peril
and into the veritable certainty
of a rapturous deliria
aroused by
my flitting, floating kneads
and pressures
— a sly torture that should be
hastened only further still
by the taunt of
designed hesitation and interruption.

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Copyright © Ron Koster/Psymon, 1996-2010.
All Rights Reserved.

Earth: Winter Grounds
Air: Spring Breeze
Fire: Summer Heat
Water: Autumn Mist
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