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Tuesday, March 29, 2016

“Sit with me?” she said, before I could glance
Chairs, table, spoon and everything that I ignored
Not before then I knew, butterflies burnt inside
Like a fuel, not hormones but potions they made
But she spoke further and I didn’t understand
Where I understood was her lips with luscious grey
Touching and teased, moved and placed
Her skin were made with silky thread, blazing
Draped and enrobed with crimson red
How I imagined, how I’d swim through her depths
“Would it be the place, my salacious sanctum”, I smirked
She smiled! And the poet grew in desperation and in rush
As he was born from her thighs to her wrist, not the romance
But every weight could ground hold, opposed and attempted to escape
I said, “How many poets failed to verse you and rhyme?
For not, I sighed within, to poetry such art be possible, as I quarreled inside.
“I must surrender and beg for her love”, her fumes tempted me.
“Love I suppose, I could gift or only thing can be done to such?”
If not, “How shall I keep her and never be apart?” I strived alone
For she said, “Love if, If it’s loved, not love if it needs to be loved.
And I whispered “You’re more than any love, perhaps more than any magic.

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