You dally do you not,
as you caress me with gentle strokes
of your dainty, delicate fingers,
you dally,
taking time to tease,
and please your treasured lover,
your love.

I am that,
as are you to me,
and so I dally upon your divine flesh,
touching the transformed 
fruits of passion, 
quivering and trembling,
I dally.

But, no, my love,
it is not a dalliance,
unless divine,
truly filled with lofty
intentions,
to live and love
as one
for eternity,
so I dally.

I rise, and you stroke,
and I dally upon the dimpled
landscape on your precious,
holy
flesh, 
the body of lust,
and love,
we dally.

We dally in
divine dalliance,
we feel with all senses,
tasting honeyed dampness, 
and smelling drifting, heated breath,
and hearing our heaving, 
begging lust,
while both fondling
with a fondness,
a quietly calm fierceness, 
and joyous
dalliance
divine.