Spilt Ink

They tossed and turned
Lost all track of time
Her body was the pages
His kisses were the rhymes
They made poetry together
Enough verses to fill books
He licked every cranny
She kissed every nook
But like all good things
They must come to an end
So she closed her pad
And he capped his pen
Yet words were still heard
With a sounding alarm
When her husband came home
He could smell their poem
She hid their pages
On a deserted shelf
When he found them she said
That she wrote them herself
Everything was back in order
Her life back in sync
Until he looked at the desk
And spotted the spilt ink