Obfuscation.

We're all guilty of loving you:

of having brushed our hands

against the litheness of your back.

All we'll be guilty of afterwards...

I'm guilty of having liked you,

of having had you,

of holding you.

Guilty thoughts:

"I love you",

"I await you",

"I destroy you".

Whilst the obfuscation syndrome

(that shadow from beneath my skull),

crawl'd across the floor

through the dust and the mud.

We're all guilty of loving you: 

of dreaming you, exploring you;

setting search by starlight 

for the intimate delight. 

The promise of your politeness 

and perky, chocolate nipples -

enough to send me mad,

quite mad!

For joy is rare occasion'd.

Empirically we think we search for cures to obfuscation:

yours within the word (and smell),

with mine beneath the eyes.

I have kissed you,

I have known you,

but that never would suffice!

All this I must confess, and thus allow under the sky.

All you'll be guilty of afterwards...

All we'll be guilty of afterwards...

All I'll be guilty of afterwards...

is letting you walk by.

For weal or woe -

Goodbye.