She writes love poems.
Even the sadnes, the death,
they are love.

she flutters by

I am deeper than a kiss she thinks
and then something bright and shiny flew by;
she was gone, off in another direction
her hand holding his all the while.

The anchor allowed her this freedom.

She…
was more the type
to take a lover in the truer
sense of the word, dynamics
defined loose and broad;

to cherish, to adore,
give freely, unfettered
and simply of her herself;
open heart, open door
open mind in honesty and
at leisure to explore
these bounds ‘cause

She
was more the type to be
mistress than to be wife
for as a lover she gives
what she expects in return;

friendship and the touch,
the taste of skin; cool hands
on too hot flesh; desire.

Listening
words and music
always
the humming
in my ears.

Dreaming and

Making
the list to do
with you
I wonder will it
Ever come about.

Wanting and

Planning
isn’t doing and
idealization falls
short held against
manifestation.

Living

So easy to slip off
cool and calm interest
when the heat of
desire becomes need.

Deep breath, shallow,
she remains in
control, her aggression
pacing the cage.

in comment for Jim Coppoc

When all the day has done it's deeds
and the girls with thier wants and needs
are nowhere to be found 'round your roost
turn to me, the peach you seek? Forsooth!