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RosalynLong Jan 2015
She is a breathing book
each night I touch her pages
delicately turn to find
her heart in letters
written by her hand…

Scent of vanilla
soft and sensuous
unveiling another thought
another smiling memory
another intimate piece of her…

And I read with such abandon
across her pages
my fingers trailing
her soft paper skin…

In her sighs
she speaks of
stories and sonnets
history and fantasy
blue skies and silvery silks…

I hear her voice
in the pages
wanting to know her
every line
every word
every letter…

Now I take her into me
share my book with her
until we know
can read each glance
each whisper
each touch…

She is a book
and I love to read her pages…
-Craig Froman
(not mine)
about me
after we
mud puddle
we kissed
the mud
she forgot


— The End —