For the intimist writer, his space is vital
To draw upon dreams, to draw your bath,
Allow me to unfurl and release the towel
Woman, you’ve incurred my intimacy wrath

Easy now, betcha by golly wow . . .
You’re my undeniable writing prompt,
Paint you, sculpt you–I would if I could
On the initial draft I may’ve stomped

Unworthy they are, my creative lines
Of the visual that my stolen eyes behold,
A tub, filled with suds, is but a tub
Except you’re its content, truth be told

I’m restarting, the opening paragraph anew
“The woman doth give his pen sole purpose,”
I dare not objectify, my integrity is high
But, please, will you break the water’s surface?

There, appears the mid-arm birthmark
upon which my eyes may feast, my dear,
Your hands need not curtain the gifts
My intentions are benign but artistically clear

Nothing I’ve seen as angelically beautiful
I speak, I write as a man truly blessed,
To bathe you my mind has risen to bountiful
My study, my being, my psyche you’ve possessed

A room is but a room
The wooded walls, they remain,
But a room can touch a writer
And his art is ne’er the same

A summary is but a summary
But read the sum of what I wrote,
The flowing hair fall, I described it all
An exclusive baptism with lather moat

A tub is still a tub
Even in the absence of a rub,
But can you feel the stirring in my loin . . .
What, you would like me to join . . .

. . . You?

Don’t mind if I do.

Thought you’d never ask.

________

***

Pamper the woman . . . and forever live in her soul. -Rg2

© 2015 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®