My Juliet - 5 : 12

My Poet - 4 

"Thy words, darling -- warm honey 'pon my tongue, 

Charmed I was, as if in a glamour.

Thy deftness of quill hath woven thee

Of far superior cloth than callers past;

T'was thy love of craft what won my eye --

A love I coveted, I doth confess. 

Pained was I, in sending you my note;

Near to dawn, each word twice rewrit,

Plagued by nerves. What if I looked the fool,

One salutation, among countless more?

Yet none could beam so very joyfully

As I did, at reading thy reply. 

T'was as if pulled into a magic place;

What paradise-- what Eden we had made! 

Heaven never so aptly defined,

Celestial did I feel, within it.

Knew then, I did, to whom my bliss belonged. 

Within are notes I have for thee prepared;

Each of our dialogues saved, transcribed

And recorded in each precious detail,

Every piece of us, in every form. 

Remember me this way, I beg of thee!

I would not be memorialized

As infected with this ruthless plague!

  

So beautiful, our place -- it freed my soul.

To place my trust in thee so thoroughly -- 

To have thee, with thy words, pluck of my fruit --

No greater pleasure 'neath the risen sun,

Than to have been chosen as thy muse.

Thy words awoke a furnace deep within;

'Twixt mine aching breast and melting thighs

Such realms of ecstasy I never knew. 

From our first parlay, I burned for thee;

Every part of me was yours to tend,

And I would serve thy every lustful whim.

Thine utterly was I, even then. 

For thee did I so completely fall,

But soon would I receive the fateful call.

- Juliet."

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