I once had a love
who folded secrets between her thighs
like napkins,
and concealed memories in the valley
of her *******.
There was no match for the freckles on her chest,
and no one could mistake them for a field
of honeysuckles.
Upon her lips,
a thousand lies were spread in sweet gloss.
Her kiss was like a storybook of medieval chivalry,
or a poem from ancient history.
She was at home with the body of a man
inside her,
beside her.
And those night she lay in bed crying,
no one could mistake the tears she wept
for a summer shower.
She is gone, my Love.
She was a wanderess,
a wildflower.