string of pearls

diamonds in the river
stardust on my hands

You.

I’m making this an invitation.

This desk? It’s a place of work. A place where writing is done.

It is a place of worship.

Sometimes the desk is covered in papers, books, letters. And sometimes the papers, books and letters are covered by you.

Don’t be shy; you belong there, amongst the words.

Of course, you will you need to be a book without a cover. Necessity demands you lay between the pages naked; how else will my pen discover the metaphors you’ve so cleverly hidden for me to find?

I will turn you so, that the lines of your body follow the lines of my prose. And if I stop for a snack, a small sampling of the better sex, it is only in service of my writing. You will be a-muse-ing, a breathing sculpture (don’t worry, I won’t call you Pygmalion; I have better names for you).