With additional impractical poem

I am a graduate student of Medieval English Literature. This is not the sort of advanced degree that gives one a lot of practical life skills. I can read Beowulf in the original, and translate Middle French. Very little call for either of those on a daily basis. (NB: Dear Steven Moffat, Should you ever want to send the Doctor to meet Joan of Arc, I'm your girl.)

This weekend, I am using one of my few practical life skills, and repainting my kitchen. (Dining area? The place where I eat, not where I cook.) Lovely, warm shades of dusty rose. I am currently sore all over, covered in primer splotches, and full of a terrific feeling of accomplishment.

I have also been fiddling a bit with a poem that I think wants to be a sestina. (I may well be addicted to the damned things now. Someone is going to be in a lot of trouble over this.) For your reading enjoyment:

Your touch rewrites the lines of my desire.

I crave your words upon my skin and long

For secrets writ on flesh, inscribed in dream...