I think I can write.
I think I can write funny.
I think I can write articulate energy.

I think I write lightweight, throwaway, flotsam,
I think I can write intuitively, acrobatically, with verve.
Sometimes I'm witty.
Sometimes inventive.
Sometimes manic
Occasionally thoughtful.

My mind flits like a magpie from shiny object to shiny object.
One for sorrow two for joy
Three for the girl and all for the boy.

I like my surreal, illogical leaps from literary stone to lyrical rock
From comedic land to artful sea.

But I don't think I can write sex
Even though I write a lot of sex.
She does it so much better.
Passion. Beauty. Erotic. Arousal.
To be inside her mind is a joy.
I am in awe.

But occasionally I must hit the mark; I can't be as clumsy as I believe.
Otherwise how could I have impressed her? The words must convey me better than I think.
My limited sexual thesaurus must carry the truth nonetheless
Since those words so inspire her to such heights.
And praise from Bardot is praise indeed.

The next physical chapter awaits.