Dear Señor,
There is no other sweet torture,
As you pluck my strings.
Fingers delve
and tug at the taut ropes
Your ministrations
Coax my non-existent eyes
to roll back to my head.
That velvety mouth of yours
When your lips move languidly
When the baritone rumble of your throat starts
and the sinful way it worships.
How that very voice
Produce wet trails..
And wetness turn into warmth..
And warmth escalates
into heated litany.
Your song, your strumming..
Your everything allures me
to willingly lose my mind.
Nothing else compares
to the way you make
A non-singing being like me sing.
PS: Por favor, Señor
Don't ever stop playing.
Ever yours,
La Gitara