No notes in a margin these, but strong clear lines
Writ curled about your belly, breasts and thighs.
A story partly private, partly bold,
To read with lips and fingertips, not eyes;
Perhaps, a tale you'd rather not see told.
Expensive stuff, time's ink, to waste on lies;
A day of life for every day's supply,
But in return the nib writes only truth.
I hold you close, my reading done, and sigh,
Happy with the trade we made for youth.