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A small poem about romance and passion, and how a writers mind can get in the way of it. |
I'm sitting here again. My fingers posed to write. But even in the silence, nothing comes to mind. Nothing but your face, your hands your gentle touch. The heat of your kisses. I long for them so much. It's hard for me to focus, as you whisper in my ear, and though your far away, I feel that you are near. I try to close my eyes. Think of something new. But every other thought seems to be only of you. I'm only interrupted by your hands upon my hips, no words need be said as we heatedly lock lips. "I've been thinking of you for hours" You confess the same. But it's me who wouldn't go to bed, I take the gentle blame. Your arm beneath my knees, my head against your chest, arms around your neck, until you place me on the bed. The covers are and ocean, and I'm lost in them with you. Can I stay forever? Forever here with you? I wake to find my body closely pressed to yours. And even barely waking I'm already wanting more. But morning has come, the sun has risen as it's due. And there is much that's to be done. Both by me and you. As you kiss me one more time, and it lingers on my lips, I know what I will write, about the love we make like this. |