Museum

Can I use your mind as an easel and paint a vivid picture of a lustful encounter? Can my words be used as paint and drip into the creases of your brain? Allow them to marinate and find their way into your frontal visual so that every time you close your eyes or try to blink images of me are caught in your glimpse.
I'm the artist.
Creating an icon of two bodies mangled in the most erotic of knots, tangled in a web of aphrodisiac. Sensualism in its best artistic form.
I benefit from your cerebrum being my museum, every painting that I have conceived is hanging on the facade of your sanity. You day dream and stare at the pictures as they become so real you can feel them.
Fingers touching you
Hands caressing you
Lips planting kisses on your nether regions.
Paintings in 3D motion.
The portrait of a mountain in the reflection of your physique whit chiseled rock between you thighs. Eyes marvel over the beauty of the oils and colors that portray themselves in you, magnifying the life oozing from the representation.
A pleasure to thy eyes.
A picture so perfect it causes lips to become chapped and throat to become parched because you thirst for me. Running tips of mental indigents over the creation that is me.
Grant me permission to use my vocabulary as the permanent liquid, my tongue as the brush which I dip it in, and stroke your perception, abandoning the concrete replica of me.
Nightly designs romp around your mindset taking for granted the rest you so readily seek, but those paintings, those pictures, those words, still linger causing you to lose sleep and bodily fluids.
The doctors and policemen are painted on a hand towel. Decorated with your semen, finally you feel like a free man as you lie your weary person to rest.
I leave your mental museum with new paintings and attractions to gaze at on your wall.
Placing my brush back into its container and sealing the paint tightly; so that it will be ready for tomorrow nights masterpiece.

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