These days of melancholy.
Immerse in the wash of skin.
Your begin and end.
The air is charged
and we’re in unison.
There citadel for this.
Ruins by now.
Old soul no doubt.
"I love like this,"
Spoke the bard and the
subsequent bacchanal.
The sudden end is rain.
The romanticism.
The sardonic.
The new to do
and I’ve been it.
Make her a
fixture for a spin.
The wash of the morning.
Your breath on my neck.
She’s head to toe
press of flesh.
She sweep in like
reverence.
All the more
the structure sway.
second wind.
G©
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