Dear beautiful woman -- speak to me from your heart -- and let me reciprocate. I would enjoy writing a book of sonnets to honor you. I want you to know how it feels to be totally captivated, to seduce you as you seduce me, so that you can know what it feels like to give your heart. I could do this with sonnets, in your honor, as Shakespeare did. Why not? I have a fingernail and, surprising even myself, with you alone, a toenail fetish. You're just that good. I enjoy words, and with the ineffable beauty of your perfect fingers and toes, smooth, enticing, so colorful, a is so real but so frustratingly virtual. Just a vain wish, but in all things a man may do for a woman to admire, I so want to seduce you as you seduce me. Fantasy? Of course, Arinda. But if you'd speak to me I think I'd melt and promise you the world. I don't wish to be too forward, but actually, I do. Please forgive me and blush deeply. I know beauty. It's in the heart and in the head; begot and nourished. And, being naughty in fun, I remind you, beauty dies in the cradle where it lies. Come to me. What I could give is deeper and more still than merely the material. Men love to clothe woman. Choose what dress they should wear. And for me, what rings, bangles, bracelets. The things I could whisper into your ear, or proclaim aloud in praise of perfection. Nature has outdone herself when it comes to you. I know you are wise. I know you teach as well as tempt. Think how many men and women instantly become nail fetishists enraptured by seeing you in person. A book of sonnets in your honor. Words cannot wield the matter -- your enticing smooth, pampered, oiled, massaged and wrapped in rings with diamonds of the finest gold and platinum. I can smell the Argan in your hair. Let me speak. Let me write. 12 lines and two in a rhyming couplet. If only fancy could die in the cradle where it lies, rather than ten million miles away. Come to me. I joke, I joke. But you know the truth the lies in jest. Enraptured.... Daniel
Dear beautiful woman -- speak to me from your heart -- and let me reciprocate. I would enjoy writing a book of sonnets to honor you. I want you to know how it feels to be totally captivated, to seduce you as you seduce me, so that you can know what it feels like to give your heart. I could do this with sonnets, in your honor, as Shakespeare did. Why not? I have a fingernail and, surprising even myself, with you alone, a toenail fetish. You're just that good. I enjoy words, and with the ineffable beauty of your perfect fingers and toes, smooth, enticing, so colorful, a is so real but so frustratingly virtual. Just a vain wish, but in all things a man may do for a woman to admire, I so want to seduce you as you seduce me. Fantasy? Of course, Arinda. But if you'd speak to me I think I'd melt and promise you the world. I don't wish to be too forward, but actually, I do. Please forgive me and blush deeply. I know beauty. It's in the heart and in the head; begot and nourished. And, being naughty in fun, I remind you, beauty dies in the cradle where it lies. Come to me. What I could give is deeper and more still than merely the material. Men love to clothe woman. Choose what dress they should wear. And for me, what rings, bangles, bracelets. The things I could whisper into your ear, or proclaim aloud in praise of perfection. Nature has outdone herself when it comes to you. I know you are wise. I know you teach as well as tempt. Think how many men and women instantly become nail fetishists enraptured by seeing you in person. A book of sonnets in your honor. Words cannot wield the matter -- your enticing smooth, pampered, oiled, massaged and wrapped in rings with diamonds of the finest gold and platinum. I can smell the Argan in your hair. Let me speak. Let me write. 12 lines and two in a rhyming couplet. If only fancy could die in the cradle where it lies, rather than ten million miles away. Come to me. I joke, I joke. But you know the truth the lies in jest. Enraptured.... Daniel
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