Longing
I still miss her mystery, mornings
when I'd wake beside her and
nuzzle her nape, hear her
breathing so softly, so sleek under
satins that sculpted her beautiful shape.
Now my days are vacant,
evenings are empty with no one to hold,
to ponder and pattern ambitions
together for ever, pale dreams
that are now so far distant and cold.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2006
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