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Brontë

You just can't

compete with

**** Me

boots.

The leather-clad calves

that

whisper "come to bed...

I promise so

many touches"

Cardigans merely dictate

"shoulders maybe...

You so much as peek

at my

collarbones, and you're

done for,

Mister."

Spoken -

Maybe I would

tease...

"Try only,

to kiss

my cheek

because I'm

on the

boring bus"

(and especially

in your Chamber)

Or so you

would suppose.

But inside this

sweater, I'm

a Butterfly.

Request permission to use this poem

Written by

f-white

American

Published: Mar 4, 2011
LinesWords: 3274

Notes: Copyright FHW, 2011

A.N: the things people wear in coffee shops..I swear...

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