All the freckles and the pimples were golden in your eyes. At long last there is a sunset in which I can repose.
There is a space between your words, and the meaning though carried by laughter is never clear. At first, you made me glow as rapturous emotions through me flow.
And I knew a life my body could not contain nor restrain. Why, even strangers turned to gaze, shiftless husbands sought to graze ignoring wives’ jealous craze.
“It is for life?” I would be assured, and admitting guilt I would be consoled. I have fashioned a bridge between the space, securing the fragile span upon your words.
It sways and trembles as if there is a disconnect and I’m beset by doubts.
You speak of my pimples more than my dimples. And in my flaws you reside your claws. Oh you still kiss my lips and entwined my hips and subdue my breast with sweet caress. “‘Tis for life?” you ask, and my answer takes a while.
I took your ring so I could sing; decidedly prove it was not a fling. It wobbles a bit, but not too bad. I’ll make a call to the jeweler, after all,” tis for life?”
You looked at me with unease, perhaps sensing my peace.
Peter Peterkin, Readers Bureau, Fellow
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