Your ***** feminine pose,
the proud look in your dark eyes,
your legs strong as columns,
your statue enchants me.
The curves of your full firm *******,
your hips, your thighs,
the sheer femaleness of your belly,
speak to me so much
of the woman you are.

But a statue is fixed,
forever beautiful, but unmoving.
It does not breathe, has no voice.
Its surface, smooth as your skin,
does not have your softness.
Blood flows through your veins ,
your flesh is warm,
but your statue is cool to my touch.

All it can do is remind me of you,
and whilst that reminder gives me pleasure,
it saddens me that the statue is not you.
All I have of you is in my memories,
in my imagination,
and though I rejoice in those thoughts,
my joy is tempered all the time
by one unchangeable fact.

You are not there.