Letter to the princess of pulpae

Mi dearest Zoe,
Draped across the arm of your chair is at once both my medicine and pleasure. The blue suede with the thrusted patterns are indeed a divine backdrop for and endless taste of divinity. The silk you release will always cling in its careful disregard for the subtle light cast lower in the generous glow of your orbs. I travel this light still closer in your speaking a thousand volumes of desire, all in the language of your parting whispers.

It's true that if the Butcher meets you while I am aweigh he will be two tired as we have passed his shop on our tandem bicycle with no regard of his faith. A conundrum and our mayor's Irish washer woman did sink past the plumber flush. Your sub-tradesmen must soon surrender their eponymy - no questions asked!
Your have always impressed me with the will of your whisk and utensil - never fleeting. And you do know so well these possessive gifts - only one of your twelve and twenty mystic charms.
Use (and play) me up dear regal Magdalene! Only leave enough to nourish your own epistle.
I am within you warm and without amend
(would like very much to see your teeth - I'm alternately aroused by your quill!)
your true one, Benjo