Erotic PoetryAt ones pleasure: ProcessA letter at work
With no address of return,
Scented paper with calligraphy
Branded black like souls that burn.
A date and time, a place to be
You plan out your attire
Hoping this is just the chance
To make your stress perspire
You press the paper to your breast
And sigh in deep despair
Scent's of rose and honey spark
Your lungs and fill the air
A shadow around the corner
Smiles in his delight
Knowing full well that his catch
Will be his, at least this night.
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