Sitting on the desk of Mrs. Emily Jones, another letter, another rose.

My Dearest Emily,

I wish I had the gift of rhyme, Emily, for my heart is filled with poetry for my love for you. But I fear I cannot, for you are the poem, and I have not the words to compare to you. You are a ballad, sweet Emily, a ballad of love in your every move, you every smile and glance. You are, as they say, ‘Poetry in motion’.
I watch as you move by me. The swing of your hair, the sway of your hips, the bounce of your breast. I long to hold your naked breast in my hand, to feel the heat of your passion, to suckle your rigid nipple and taste your desires. I dream of you in my bed Emily, my hand along your silken thigh, your hair spread across my pillows, your eyes dreamy with your passions. For you are the poem Emily, my poem of forbidden passion, my sweet taboo.
Come to me Emily, let us find our secret place in a world of heated love and passionate desires.