Life is prose, waiting for the romantic heart to craft it into poetry
Blow me, mold me, shape me,
poured into the glass of your hands
like rich hot chocolate.
Drink me in.
Eat me for dessert, bring me to your lips,
lick the bowl
of sweetness between my hips.
Cup your hands around my ass,
break me open, hard and wide,
then smooth me
with a caress.
Drape your manhood around the soft curves of my body
for me to hold like a warm blanket
through incandescent winter nights.
I will tell tales in my dreams
for you to finish.
Like glass is formed from grains of sand,
so is a story formed,
from many tiny moments,
all crystallized within the raging heat
of the heart’s workshop.
So blow me, my dear glassblower,
into the shape
of your desire
and I will blow you.