Whenever we make word-filled love late at night
She looks on while we lie infront of the fire
Petulantly all too aware of my passion's plight
For it is secretly she who drives my desire

And when the deed is done in time
Her and I will cease to play at this pretence
And while I feel the familiarities of her spine
We'll leave behind these true romantics we so incense.

And while making referential love to her she'll clearly see
That I possibly couldn't bid either one goodbye
For we are trapped in this marriage of three -
Creativity, my Oxford dictionary, and I

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...