The Woes Of A Wife Guy

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun,

and I should be grateful that she was altruistic enough to exist that way,

for my own eyes follow hers with no cessation,

and were her gaze like the sun,

my own eyes would shrivel and burn,

my mind sent mad at the endless daylight.

She lets me rest, by her side,

my heartbeat, performing percussion against the cool, cruelty of her body.

I stare up at her with curious, dependent wonder in my stares and she states quite plainly, that I belong to her completely.

What can I do, but say yes?

What can I do when her breathing is slow and seductive, and she is on top of me?

What can I do, when she plays statesman, guiding me towards the safety of spread legs, obedient sighs and the kind of satisfaction that will make me put a cross against her name, again and again?

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun,

but in my eyes,

they are nothing short of spectacular,

stealing the colour of the deepest oceans,
capturing the magnificence of roaring seas in her sweet stare,

and letting me stare, and stare and stare.

To share such beauty,

and let me go mad,

to let me go from blushing bride to full time wife guy,

is the kindest kind of cruelty.