Author of our sins

Since when you are a painter? Pressing your brush over her empty, dirty canvas. My love, you are a writer! And I'm the white pages you want to write over.

I am open for you, without cover... give me a title and a meaning, author of our sin. Become inspired and complete, I need your quill filling me.

Keep on kissing me with your lies, until my skin is wrapped into a fantasy. Then wake up without me, my delusional man.

Write treason between my legs, while your hands erase any evidence of our passion. Please, let my be the forbidden book that your wife can't find about.

Isn't the desire of writing poetry burning enough? Then turn me into a novel! Into the best one... until the words you spread on me can be heard out loud.

Please allow the ink of your pen be all over me each night, and by day hide me on plain sight. But my crazy, mad novelist... never burn me down. And if you do, be sure to write me one more time.

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