I once made love to a Jazz musician. His hands traced my body like I was his own personal piano. His lips kissed me and went over me like I was a saxophone. There was a moment where I thought how could this be happening to me? His touch, his gaze, his words, his game. The bed was the most comfortable I had ever been on, made me hate mine when I crawled into it the next day. His rymes were so written well, he knew exactly what I needed, with out me saying a thing. At one point all I could hear was music in the background, not music I knew but the music we were making. It was amazing like a mix of Joe Cocker, Jason Mraz, Miles Davis, Jay-z, and of course his own music. There was and still is this tune playing in my head, will I become a lyric? Will you write a song about me? Oh to live for eternity in a song! To have others see me the way that he did, feel me the way that he did, make me want to cum like he did. To have a whole fan base know me by a lyric, that they start to search for me, this woman that drove you to write these words and these rymes. To walk down the street knowing somewhere someone is searching for me, searching for the real me.
