Hers is not the face
I am supposed to see
When I close my eyes,
Her shape is not the shape
I should feel
Pressing up against me,
My hands warming on
Her softness,
Exploring her tender curves,
Feeling every inch,
A blind man gifted
With the intense sense
That gives him vision
His eyes lack,
Fingers lingering
In special crevices
Gathering moist delights
Like a bee disgorging pollen
For honey,
Though no honey is so sweet
As this is,
I close my eyes
And see you
In a way I never could before
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