The dance

Let's feel the steam,

turn it up,

slide your fingers across the sheen,

bliss,

being traced by your fingertips,

drawing to a kiss.

See through,

and you're the painting,

the wall is blue, we're the pink and

subtle red.

Those locks call my digits their keys,

but they're drenched and so I just squeeze,

I felt the wall tremble, with every nibble,

from careful artwork, to fierce scribbles.

I am a master at work, in the palm of his muse,

the oils and stream, our dance, we fuse,

She is a mastress at work, in the storm of his mind,

thunder and lightning, an unbothered vine.