"shampooed" poems - Hello Poetry

Do not wash my hair dress me up or close my eyes I am what I am a husk, a shell discarded and turning up at my own funeral in a bow tie all shampooed and combed hair with my eyes shut as if napping through it all would never be my idea of acceptable.

0

Oct 18, 2015

Oct 18, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC

nivek

some last requests

Do not wash my hair dress me up or close my eyes I am what I am a husk, a shell discarded and turning up at my own funeral in a bow tie all shampooed and combed hair with my eyes shut as if napping through it all would never be my idea of acceptable.

9

Our cafe speaks in vowels and screams in consonants. Hipsters sing asexual love music, or goodbyes They claim the sun hurts their eyes And so, if chemistry's wet, shampooed hair Breaks the cold, white-white windows Musicians slam as if they know-know-know, and know-it-all, up there, playing their songs. Old "Steward", highly-paid employee, on break for a drink--says, "In the 30s we got none, needed none." He wants to mend the windows, send them home, and get back to work. But he is caught in sweltering heat Their heat. rosing on every person's cheek when they turn their heads, and observe chemical ties. These mates speak better syllables

0

Feb 14, 2015

Feb 14, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC

sarah-sad-matcha

Il Fait Chaud

Our cafe speaks in vowels and screams in consonants. Hipsters sing asexual love music, or goodbyes They claim the sun hurts their eyes And so, if chemistry's wet, shampooed hair Breaks the cold, white-white windows Musicians slam as if they know-know-know, and know-it-all, up there, playing their songs. Old "Steward", highly-paid employee, on break for a drink--says, "In the 30s we got none, needed none." He wants to mend the windows, send them home, and get back to work. But he is caught in sweltering heat Their heat. rosing on every person's cheek when they turn their heads, and observe chemical ties. These mates speak better syllables

18

~~~ *bathed by breezes of southern gentility, sun soaped by eye-prickling, star twinkling glints, shampooed in delicious waves of white sno caps, my crazy wild hair, conditioned by the foaming bay's riffles dappled waters transformed into a Van Gogh glow of The Sower sprinkling golden seed upon fields of summer wheat glorious my little yellow rubber duckies, are now blue white snow geese alive, down from Nova Scotia, where August is already emboldened colden, so they non-stop honk tho mere passerbys, everybody is seeking a place in history, the surety, that this poem, by their inclusion herein, promises posterity the grass blades wave with endless swaying applause, at yet another attempt of poetic tribute, for once more, spell bound by the bounty of the moment, enslaved happily to the idea there is no satiation possible from the earthly satisfaction of this place, this sheltered isle the leaves are cappuccino frothy performers, unison shaking just like a roman legion of stadium fans, they offer me untold numbers of likes and reads, and other candied goodies, promises endless to root for my winter dream teams, if their presence is here prominently included, until they too fall silent, grounded, shed by their rightful owners every time I think the well is dry, swept under by a rip tide of drowning overwhelming gratitude, for here I come to a place. a station for repair, where poems are bandied about, summer fruits ripe for plucking sunroom lace, summer curtains, will hide out here in my absence, the lace, turns into snowflakes crystalline, by icy waters and gusts, that will be both untrodden and unadmired for when the poet is clad in the damask drapes of winter's inevitability, will close his eyes and will hide out here, right here, in this one of his never ending prior~poem~prayers homages, until next year's can't-come- too-early spring arrives, sparked by tendrils of meeting markers, noting that new poems have been fallow fallen, winter seeded, awaiting your watering and writing, of the appreciation of the simple majesty of this small corner of the earth*

0

Aug 15, 2015

Aug 15, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

bathed by breezes of southern gentility

~~~ *bathed by breezes of southern gentility, sun soaped by eye-prickling, star twinkling glints, shampooed in delicious waves of white sno caps, my crazy wild hair, conditioned by the foaming bay's riffles dappled waters transformed into a Van Gogh glow of The Sower sprinkling golden seed upon fields of summer wheat glorious my little yellow rubber duckies, are now blue white snow geese alive, down from Nova Scotia, where August is already emboldened colden, so they non-stop honk tho mere passerbys, everybody is seeking a place in history, the surety, that this poem, by their inclusion herein, promises posterity the grass blades wave with endless swaying applause, at yet another attempt of poetic tribute, for once more, spell bound by the bounty of the moment, enslaved happily to the idea there is no satiation possible from the earthly satisfaction of this place, this sheltered isle the leaves are cappuccino frothy performers, unison shaking just like a roman legion of stadium fans, they offer me untold numbers of likes and reads, and other candied goodies, promises endless to root for my winter dream teams, if their presence is here prominently included, until they too fall silent, grounded, shed by their rightful owners every time I think the well is dry, swept under by a rip tide of drowning overwhelming gratitude, for here I come to a place. a station for repair, where poems are bandied about, summer fruits ripe for plucking sunroom lace, summer curtains, will hide out here in my absence, the lace, turns into snowflakes crystalline, by icy waters and gusts, that will be both untrodden and unadmired for when the poet is clad in the damask drapes of winter's inevitability, will close his eyes and will hide out here, right here, in this one of his never ending prior~poem~prayers homages, until next year's can't-come- too-early spring arrives, sparked by tendrils of meeting markers, noting that new poems have been fallow fallen, winter seeded, awaiting your watering and writing, of the appreciation of the simple majesty of this small corner of the earth*

78

Transferring action lit by dim candlelight Forming sentences by the wind A tall tale underneath painted purple bed sheets Mysteries of life and the gatekeeper's lazy hand A transference of love through the page Bringing images by words and meter Peter tempting Gabriel two times or more Contracts ripped in half by two lover's quarrel Necessary are these hours Staring far into the stars Nodding not into sleep, for That Is too easy I nod for the scent of freshly shampooed wet hair Or the glance of the eye downward from shyness A tell that all is not stable, though both are quite able To take what they will if they wanted if they could An annoyance Like the ***** of a finger on a rose petal Ironic Like stubbing one's toe On your recently bought golden toilet bowl Fresh are you, fruit of the Mid west The snow in your hair never melts Consequence beseeches you, fair angel My heart is but a spool of yarn, fallen and tangled Quick, in first gear To the rear go the spears Holy water pipes and Misinformed volcanoes are but a wish To see destruction On what we familial souls Claiming belief in what we love What does one need other then A room with a key and lock? These men and women who flock To shiny office and cloud piercing cathedrals Are mere coffins ***** and metal Lost in flight Reaching for a moon that does not wish To house us Another night passes. The dawn is quick to rise. Mornings moon disappears From sight behind the trees And the marble fountain made For the phantom of petty monarchy. And though the phrase Is spoken in a nightingales song Does not mean that a razor doth hide Underneath the tip of the Very same tongue

0

Oct 10, 2013

Oct 10, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC

ashby-brown

Three Degrees of Taking

Transferring action lit by dim candlelight Forming sentences by the wind A tall tale underneath painted purple bed sheets Mysteries of life and the gatekeeper's lazy hand A transference of love through the page Bringing images by words and meter Peter tempting Gabriel two times or more Contracts ripped in half by two lover's quarrel Necessary are these hours Staring far into the stars Nodding not into sleep, for That Is too easy I nod for the scent of freshly shampooed wet hair Or the glance of the eye downward from shyness A tell that all is not stable, though both are quite able To take what they will if they wanted if they could An annoyance Like the ***** of a finger on a rose petal Ironic Like stubbing one's toe On your recently bought golden toilet bowl Fresh are you, fruit of the Mid west The snow in your hair never melts Consequence beseeches you, fair angel My heart is but a spool of yarn, fallen and tangled Quick, in first gear To the rear go the spears Holy water pipes and Misinformed volcanoes are but a wish To see destruction On what we familial souls Claiming belief in what we love What does one need other then A room with a key and lock? These men and women who flock To shiny office and cloud piercing cathedrals Are mere coffins ***** and metal Lost in flight Reaching for a moon that does not wish To house us Another night passes. The dawn is quick to rise. Mornings moon disappears From sight behind the trees And the marble fountain made For the phantom of petty monarchy. And though the phrase Is spoken in a nightingales song Does not mean that a razor doth hide Underneath the tip of the Very same tongue

52

ten minutes to write. score the music, melancholic the repetitive phrase, but I refuse it. instead I bathtub splash hard soft rockin' roll, the boon dog now soaking, quizzes my sanity what does he know? Score the life times. five minutes to write. trite crumpled, hook-shot into the trash, but trite costly, one minute of a lifetime, scared, sacred, but scored by ruts, grooves, ex personas in my life, the black markers of my insane pushed under the water, drowned by music. One minute to write. Poem: a good start to the day, please pass the soap, shampooed the trash out of my life, the rest, now to start.

0

Jan 5, 2014

Jan 5, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Ten minutes to write

ten minutes to write. score the music, melancholic the repetitive phrase, but I refuse it. instead I bathtub splash hard soft rockin' roll, the boon dog now soaking, quizzes my sanity what does he know? Score the life times. five minutes to write. trite crumpled, hook-shot into the trash, but trite costly, one minute of a lifetime, scared, sacred, but scored by ruts, grooves, ex personas in my life, the black markers of my insane pushed under the water, drowned by music. One minute to write. Poem: a good start to the day, please pass the soap, shampooed the trash out of my life, the rest, now to start.

28

Your reader quakes like a ready reactor Steady burn an incalculable factor On your mark, we approach the next chapter A quiet pen, without ambition Keeps each plan from happy fruition And pressure mounts, some new type of fission Carve yourself out a space in time Mark it well so it’s easy to find History don’t repeat, but rhymes: Solicitudes concede to style Somebody just filed suit for libel One more murmur to add to the pile To be a made man is to be man-made And so you dull your colors down a shade The arsonists took over the fire brigade Step outside of your burning home Pavement stand, dial your phone Ask whomever if We are Rome The receiver will no doubt laugh a little That is, if she caught the preceding riddle Somewhere Nero bows the fiddle Tell me something, if you please About the world pregnant virgins see Oblivious to a state emergency A noble fourth, our D’Artangan Has the sharpened instinct of a jealous man Oh, you know him? And you’re a fan? He’s wants a girl who drinks whisky and gin Musket holstered, what a sin Somebody asks, “What shape’s he in?” One assumes he’s kind of tame A lion, yes, but with a shampooed mane He don’t play ***** but he plays the game Shoes on, button up, wipe your glasses Time to shake up contented masses Donde hay educación, no hay distinción de clases

0

Mar 23, 2010

Mar 23, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC

edward-j-mis

Letters, pt. 6: Note to Shelly

Your reader quakes like a ready reactor Steady burn an incalculable factor On your mark, we approach the next chapter A quiet pen, without ambition Keeps each plan from happy fruition And pressure mounts, some new type of fission Carve yourself out a space in time Mark it well so it’s easy to find History don’t repeat, but rhymes: Solicitudes concede to style Somebody just filed suit for libel One more murmur to add to the pile To be a made man is to be man-made And so you dull your colors down a shade The arsonists took over the fire brigade Step outside of your burning home Pavement stand, dial your phone Ask whomever if We are Rome The receiver will no doubt laugh a little That is, if she caught the preceding riddle Somewhere Nero bows the fiddle Tell me something, if you please About the world pregnant virgins see Oblivious to a state emergency A noble fourth, our D’Artangan Has the sharpened instinct of a jealous man Oh, you know him? And you’re a fan? He’s wants a girl who drinks whisky and gin Musket holstered, what a sin Somebody asks, “What shape’s he in?” One assumes he’s kind of tame A lion, yes, but with a shampooed mane He don’t play ***** but he plays the game Shoes on, button up, wipe your glasses Time to shake up contented masses Donde hay educación, no hay distinción de clases

36

For the longest time I did everything by myself. Only dividing myself by one. Before us, I would hear only but the rustling of leaves against my heel. I never thought of the word “Hello” as a lightning rod before, waiting for a spark. Without you, I only saw the gaps between my hands as just empty spaces. I believe we were always waiting to be added. X’s looking to be found. One thing leading to another. When I was just one, enough was always just enough. I never saw the sky as something the sun swallowed. I never saw dead-ends as a place to find each other. But a gathering for the lost. When we collided We were everything at once. Multiplying what we both had. We would step upon the autumn leaves and bring about igniting cannon ***** brushing against our soles. We were a sun shower Clear enough to see but ravenous amongst the painted orange clouds. I never knew my hands could be filled with your shampooed hair against the thicket of my palms After our showers we heard waterfalls Before it was just water against my skin falling into place Before our silence I heard our hearts beating. During everything I learned nothing. Along the way, I was complete.

0

Dec 18, 2015

Dec 18, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC

br0couplets

After Our Showers We Heard Waterfalls

For the longest time I did everything by myself. Only dividing myself by one. Before us, I would hear only but the rustling of leaves against my heel. I never thought of the word “Hello” as a lightning rod before, waiting for a spark. Without you, I only saw the gaps between my hands as just empty spaces. I believe we were always waiting to be added. X’s looking to be found. One thing leading to another. When I was just one, enough was always just enough. I never saw the sky as something the sun swallowed. I never saw dead-ends as a place to find each other. But a gathering for the lost. When we collided We were everything at once. Multiplying what we both had. We would step upon the autumn leaves and bring about igniting cannon ***** brushing against our soles. We were a sun shower Clear enough to see but ravenous amongst the painted orange clouds. I never knew my hands could be filled with your shampooed hair against the thicket of my palms After our showers we heard waterfalls Before it was just water against my skin falling into place Before our silence I heard our hearts beating. During everything I learned nothing. Along the way, I was complete.

42

treble toned voice inching closer as black-and-white men delve into mysterious plots a paint-stained flannel rests easy on the cold floor there's only time now for cheap beer and jutting eye contact hair shampooed so freshly and genuine laughter so familiar and so brand new

0

Feb 8, 2015

Feb 8, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC

chloe-fuller

reset button

treble toned voice inching closer as black-and-white men delve into mysterious plots a paint-stained flannel rests easy on the cold floor there's only time now for cheap beer and jutting eye contact hair shampooed so freshly and genuine laughter so familiar and so brand new

6

Slowsong turns on and it's jazzy and reluctant and her hips belong where my rough palms sweat. A graceful ****** of the evening's closest company and sparkling stars and her and I pull deep into each other. Swaying to and back and Coltrane and an ashtray of sadness when I get back to the room. Zipper down the waist while her leisure stagnantly becomes mine. Covers are her cold guide and tepid flesh is mine. Sincere nakedness and hospitable skin and the hotel has a damp aroma, we embraced with the room and the sheets and slept. Shampooed hair with floral trace but I can't keep the lids of my eyes down a white ceiling and the draw of a life so immediate whispers for me to stay present. Don't escape by giving in or to be a guide to a girl and road and route that has the same signs as a love past. The dotted dome of the plaster Holiday Inn roof beckons and urges and leaks into a bygone brunette and I wish that one, Sarah, was as present, awake.

0

Sep 14, 2014

Sep 14, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC

chase-graham

Moderate affection

Slowsong turns on and it's jazzy and reluctant and her hips belong where my rough palms sweat. A graceful ****** of the evening's closest company and sparkling stars and her and I pull deep into each other. Swaying to and back and Coltrane and an ashtray of sadness when I get back to the room. Zipper down the waist while her leisure stagnantly becomes mine. Covers are her cold guide and tepid flesh is mine. Sincere nakedness and hospitable skin and the hotel has a damp aroma, we embraced with the room and the sheets and slept. Shampooed hair with floral trace but I can't keep the lids of my eyes down a white ceiling and the draw of a life so immediate whispers for me to stay present. Don't escape by giving in or to be a guide to a girl and road and route that has the same signs as a love past. The dotted dome of the plaster Holiday Inn roof beckons and urges and leaks into a bygone brunette and I wish that one, Sarah, was as present, awake.

29

Though we look the same, we are torn by miles of ocean, more of pain. In a rare respite from terror, my dreams escape this squalor, this harsh reality, and I ... become you, clean, clothed, cool; shampooed head asleep on plush cotton pillows; charcoal skin caressed by pajamas silky smooth. Come dawn… ‘Which suit to wear?' becomes my worst worry; ‘Being late for work,' my worst fear. O, to be free! Perhaps someday you'll think of me, or send me a note to spark a smile of hope on my pubescent face, two decades aged by hunger and disease. Though we look the same, we are torn by miles of ocean, more of pain. ~ P

0

Jul 20, 2013

Jul 20, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC

james-g-paul-sr-aka-pablo

A Dream from Darfur...

Though we look the same, we are torn by miles of ocean, more of pain. In a rare respite from terror, my dreams escape this squalor, this harsh reality, and I ... become you, clean, clothed, cool; shampooed head asleep on plush cotton pillows; charcoal skin caressed by pajamas silky smooth. Come dawn… ‘Which suit to wear?' becomes my worst worry; ‘Being late for work,' my worst fear. O, to be free! Perhaps someday you'll think of me, or send me a note to spark a smile of hope on my pubescent face, two decades aged by hunger and disease. Though we look the same, we are torn by miles of ocean, more of pain. ~ P

32

You taste like miscarriage Back pain is free hugging It's never been so clear how the walls are white This room has two mirrors None of them talks about medications Your nose seems to know how kindle to the eyes the air is It tastes like green chili Or an itch on the back of your neck You haven't shampooed in months Stirred stomach Maybe that is how she talks about the abortion You hand me two roses They have never had thorns Last night I was throwing up tulips Throat sour like some smile Your tongue tastes like daddy Lifted from chest It was a surgery You wish it had failed They found Jesus instead It is not chest pain It is just enough that it tastes like pickled her Bring the jar to you I'll bring the jar to you It is blended with your scalp and last Saturday's meal It has never been so clear why the floor is white This room has two lamps None of them knows who Maryjane is As we are so white as the pipes I am going to the bathroom Tomorrow you'll be fine Just not today Just keep holding on for tonight Just repeat this day after day Tomorrow you'll be fine

0

Sep 5, 2014

Sep 5, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC

Pea

A frenzy

You taste like miscarriage Back pain is free hugging It's never been so clear how the walls are white This room has two mirrors None of them talks about medications Your nose seems to know how kindle to the eyes the air is It tastes like green chili Or an itch on the back of your neck You haven't shampooed in months Stirred stomach Maybe that is how she talks about the abortion You hand me two roses They have never had thorns Last night I was throwing up tulips Throat sour like some smile Your tongue tastes like daddy Lifted from chest It was a surgery You wish it had failed They found Jesus instead It is not chest pain It is just enough that it tastes like pickled her Bring the jar to you I'll bring the jar to you It is blended with your scalp and last Saturday's meal It has never been so clear why the floor is white This room has two lamps None of them knows who Maryjane is As we are so white as the pipes I am going to the bathroom Tomorrow you'll be fine Just not today Just keep holding on for tonight Just repeat this day after day Tomorrow you'll be fine

35

Fall? No, it was Autumn. Autumn, I carried on my shoulders; Up onto the platform waiting for a train.... Autumn... Heavy loaded sun on our bare necks and heads I'd inhale, I embraced you. Lightly sweet sweat salted dry heat sun baked scent of your hair on the verge of combustion. Spending weekends adorned in silly string, Chalk monsters and animal escapades, Super bubbles, Sand pies and climbing Up and down the playground As I figured out how to be a father in thier sick and twisted game of sherades. I crouched over and watched you as you slept once. You awoke to find me watching you. Smiled up with an infants brilliance That satisfied with breadth and stride, endured, reverbed, in moments that would ride, Forward out from the inside as if it were eternity... Foolish me. Fixated on the smiling baby Swaddled in her innocence and infancy before me. Walking your neighborhood in summer night. To escape the tension of the mom and dad fight, We looked up at the night time sky too see Although you couldn't really talk then, "Look Autumn, Crescent moon..." "Crescent moon" she said, after having pulled the baby bottle from her hoodied plump cheeked mouth and pointing up to the cloudless purple sky moonlight captured perfectly and Slivered in her eye as the swarm and carousel of shadows watched from dark corners and curtains of the houses we were walking by... "Ben!! Ben!!," her baby voice shouted. Never having said my name before, Crying from the stroller Imitating her mother's neglected cries, I returned and kneeled on the floor to hold her... Sleeping... At my mothers house, In my little brothers bed, With you and your freshly bathed soft wet shampooed head; Intoxicating, infatuating... Fumes that once consumed are liberating restraining vivid pin and check point cause worth celebrating... Buckling your safety belt, the day before your fifth birthday, after explaining why I had to leave, even I misunderstood. "Be good" I said... Before you rode off in the backseat of the car with your grandmother at the wheel... "Remember Autumn" I told her before I left "...Remember..?"

0

Sep 28, 2017

Sep 28, 2017 at 2:27 AM UTC

EyesLikeDesertDunes

Autumn

Fall? No, it was Autumn. Autumn, I carried on my shoulders; Up onto the platform waiting for a train.... Autumn... Heavy loaded sun on our bare necks and heads I'd inhale, I embraced you. Lightly sweet sweat salted dry heat sun baked scent of your hair on the verge of combustion. Spending weekends adorned in silly string, Chalk monsters and animal escapades, Super bubbles, Sand pies and climbing Up and down the playground As I figured out how to be a father in thier sick and twisted game of sherades. I crouched over and watched you as you slept once. You awoke to find me watching you. Smiled up with an infants brilliance That satisfied with breadth and stride, endured, reverbed, in moments that would ride, Forward out from the inside as if it were eternity... Foolish me. Fixated on the smiling baby Swaddled in her innocence and infancy before me. Walking your neighborhood in summer night. To escape the tension of the mom and dad fight, We looked up at the night time sky too see Although you couldn't really talk then, "Look Autumn, Crescent moon..." "Crescent moon" she said, after having pulled the baby bottle from her hoodied plump cheeked mouth and pointing up to the cloudless purple sky moonlight captured perfectly and Slivered in her eye as the swarm and carousel of shadows watched from dark corners and curtains of the houses we were walking by... "Ben!! Ben!!," her baby voice shouted. Never having said my name before, Crying from the stroller Imitating her mother's neglected cries, I returned and kneeled on the floor to hold her... Sleeping... At my mothers house, In my little brothers bed, With you and your freshly bathed soft wet shampooed head; Intoxicating, infatuating... Fumes that once consumed are liberating restraining vivid pin and check point cause worth celebrating... Buckling your safety belt, the day before your fifth birthday, after explaining why I had to leave, even I misunderstood. "Be good" I said... Before you rode off in the backseat of the car with your grandmother at the wheel... "Remember Autumn" I told her before I left "...Remember..?"

47

Far away by the oceanside I sit and watch the seagulls fly inside a pale orange sun that has yet to warm a reposing sand Over by the boardwalk the air still hums of yesterday's feet two youngsters feeding pelicans perched on feathered height The smell of fried shrimp coming out of a windowless kitchen tall glass pina colada bottles with little umbrellas inserted in down by the ocean the burgundy traces of a latent sun arrives as we sip slowly, and eat quietly, atop the hotel peer Its as if it happened yesterday but I can still smell the French fries wrapped in plaid red and white paper drenched in crisping oils Pungent odors of chlorinated water from the pool now all gone replaced by freshly shampooed hair, and lingering sun tan lotion Wearing a linen white dress and my recently purchased mala beads I feel more Zen in my pinky today then I felt in a lifetime my friend far away by that ocean it was the perfect vacation without any fear when I stop to think, I hope that I could return there, next year....

0

Feb 16, 2022

Feb 16, 2022 at 7:02 PM UTC

Loretta

My Zen Vacation

Far away by the oceanside I sit and watch the seagulls fly inside a pale orange sun that has yet to warm a reposing sand Over by the boardwalk the air still hums of yesterday's feet two youngsters feeding pelicans perched on feathered height The smell of fried shrimp coming out of a windowless kitchen tall glass pina colada bottles with little umbrellas inserted in down by the ocean the burgundy traces of a latent sun arrives as we sip slowly, and eat quietly, atop the hotel peer Its as if it happened yesterday but I can still smell the French fries wrapped in plaid red and white paper drenched in crisping oils Pungent odors of chlorinated water from the pool now all gone replaced by freshly shampooed hair, and lingering sun tan lotion Wearing a linen white dress and my recently purchased mala beads I feel more Zen in my pinky today then I felt in a lifetime my friend far away by that ocean it was the perfect vacation without any fear when I stop to think, I hope that I could return there, next year....

16

Bathroom in the dark Reading the news of the day Wife comes to shower Begins to undress Shirt, pajamas, ******* off I love her **** form Hot water on, steam Mirror fogs, bath gel applied Tan long legs shaved smooth I love to watch her Armpits done, hair shampooed clean Conditioner on Hand her a towel Naked body so close by You know I will try My hand slides under Towel, hand brushes ****** Naughty smile, later Walks away with grin Cute round cheeks, cannot pass up Quick squeeze more ahead Frustrated, for now Watch, ******* socks, pants,bra, shirt Put on despite me Beautiful package Wrapped up for later on tonight Promises of bliss

0

Oct 20, 2016

Oct 20, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC

jed-johnson

Morning

Bathroom in the dark Reading the news of the day Wife comes to shower Begins to undress Shirt, pajamas, ******* off I love her **** form Hot water on, steam Mirror fogs, bath gel applied Tan long legs shaved smooth I love to watch her Armpits done, hair shampooed clean Conditioner on Hand her a towel Naked body so close by You know I will try My hand slides under Towel, hand brushes ****** Naughty smile, later Walks away with grin Cute round cheeks, cannot pass up Quick squeeze more ahead Frustrated, for now Watch, ******* socks, pants,bra, shirt Put on despite me Beautiful package Wrapped up for later on tonight Promises of bliss

27