To Write Our Bed?

Should I inform these pages of our bed?
Could words have words for what is most unsaid.
To not, has then this poet failed his stead;
To write that which the heart to-pen has led,
Then still I claim me poet, I'm deceived;
By self to self committing grievous fraud,
The worsen kind my show by stage received
And all my future works reveal me flawed.
But write then here, then I to my muse proved;
She dances on my words to finger tips,
With taps of many nights such eyes approved
And wetted though from out her loving lips.

Become my verse! Oh lovely muse of mine!
Our nights shall be as ink, as love were wine.