The next man
Is always
The lucky man
Dipping his wick
Into still pure water,
Which each of
The rest of us
Despoils over time
Having ruined
What we saw as
Perfection,
Perhaps our lust
Makes her luster so,
The glint we see
In her eyes,
The soft touch
We anticipate
When we stroke
Her breasts
It is all so new
Before we get
To touch or taste,
Nothing to disappoint us
When we finally do,
Except our own
Sad ambition,
The desire to
Contain the butterfly
We so admire
From afar,
Some things are best
Left to wander fee,
To contain them
Is to ruin them,
A lesson we must learn
She needs what she needs
To be free to
Spread her wings
Without someone
Pinning them down
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