We made love on our library floor.
With all of them watching.
Hemingway and Bukowski thought, I was the most ferocious woman.
Where as Shakespeare and Fitzgerald whispered of how well you performed.
While Poe thought of all the dreadful things that might happen, if we ever decided to let go.
It was only Dickinson, who understood why.
So many of the best moments only happen, every once in a while.
No matter how hard we try, to capture the feeling in a poem or a photograph.
And just as she,
These thoughts, these feelings
Are intended for none, although seen by many.