Waxing

Would that I were a perfect bead of sweat, precarious on thy porcelain forehead -- so eager to succumb to my lustful demons; my grip as tenuous as an apple from Newton's tree!

To receive in a frenzied instant the fullness of thy beauty, to bathe myself in silent, exquisite divinity. 

Tis already lost. How art mine fascinations proved? Quilled and clever pauper shalt instruct you? Thou wouldst receive Sir Newton better. 

O, but prithee, let me not remain unformed clay, mine angel -- mold and caress me, let thy desire mine form take; I shalt heed to thine each delicious letter. 

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- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.