the book of j.

he speaks to me in silent sound
in dreamless sleep his thoughts are bound
i yearn to read his words within
as where he ends, so i begin...

chapter one - bite me...

the sour citrus of his orange sarcasm left a sticky residue of resonance on my fingers as i peeled back his pages and bit into his insight. i chewed upon his prose, the wit exploding in tangy text upon my tongue, and reveled in the flavor of him penetrating the buds on my tongue with the throughness of a sensual carnal entry. his taste made me greedy as i began feverishly stuffing my mouth with entire passages of pulp until my belly was full from his substance. afterwards, i lay sated, sucking his piquant syntax from my fingers with the thoroughness of a woman licking her man's dick clean of all remnants of his orgasmic aftermath.


chapter two - vitamin see...

at times he was a red read, branding the pages with the crimson pigmentation of his acrimony's imprint. pinching the corners, i singed my fingers, my eyes intent upon the motivation of his agitation, a smokescreen he erected to lead the reader into focusing only on the fumes of his facade. i was desperate to know him, and so i sought the answers in the words. i deciphered his anger's language and the smoke disappeared, revealing his emaciated form folded fetal in between the smoldering lines. i gained sight into myself by finding him and he grew stronger in the absence of the choking faux smoke he thought was protecting him. the context of his pages now illuminated his audience with a flame existing from within him instead of in front of him. his tenacity was revealed in the rendering of his tenderness, his courage uncovered in the revelation of his sensitivity.


chapter three - he is set free...

he is no longer bound within a book, his pages vulnerable to the careless treatment of other fingers. his movement into new chapters of his life is no longer incited by someone else's curiosity. i now see his words etched upon everything around me. the poems expressing his desire is stitched into my panties, caressing my ass and the lips of my lust with whispers of his wicked intentions. the prose telling me of his passion is tattooed into my skin, symbols of a lover's language inked into permanent design covering me from nipples to clit with fine lines of urgent burning. the paragraphs of his aspirations are inscribed upon the surface of the sky with pens dipped in sun fire, the rays of his dreams bringing light to corners of my conscious once darkened with despair. he is his words...and they are all beautiful...



he speaks to me in more than sound
his dreams, they are no longer bound
his words exist both out and in
as where this ends, so 'we' begin...