Her eyes are not the eyes I spy in my dreams, as deep brown
as any pool, yet far deeper, her hair like strands of fine rope that frames the
face I see in sleep, and yet dangling over me as she looks down from her seat.
Her breasts are not as pale as my dreams might paint them, more Lucious for
what I might imagine with a touch or taste, her lips not so red a roses be, yet
all the more precious to me, plump and potent, full of pending promise I can
find no where else, and yes, her voice if fill with music I cock my head to
hear, a siren’s song, perhaps, that falls upon me, this all I recall from a
time I can only remember.
No comments:
Post a Comment