Poetry: take two

I bend over the desk,
pen poised above perfect paper:
Virgin bride, laid down.
I smooth the page with tender fingertips;
Clutching, nervous, sweaty,
bold ballpoint touches, stutters, then begins
painstakingly slow and gentle,
every idea primed for capture.

But then, ah, the flow!
The ink that stripes dark words over spread white skin!
Mark after mark caught,
thought after thought conquered,
as we bend to each other
lovingly, yet
feverishly, fervently, furiously!
A rush, a spill of black to stain, to remain!

Then, at last,
the tide runs dry;
I can mark no more.
Spent pen,
cramping hand,
smudged paper;
Heavy breath slows,
poetry remains.