Nov 20-1967
Again I write to someone
Who is like myself.
I find her saying what is in my mind.
Strange it is to hear your words
As someone else does speak.
I look down into her eyes
And see the life within her burn.
Her skin is soft and warm to feel,
And smooth as ivory cloth.
Her hair is dark, black like night.
I kiss her once and feel her near
And know that she is mine.
Copyright ©
Wm Paul | Year Posted 2013
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