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And I wait breathless by the bus stop,
floating behind you as you pass.
Carried unknowingly on your scent.
Burning from the laughter of your friends.
But it matters not, your skirt brushed my hand
and I carry its throbbing memory along with my homework.
Thirteen Grades Of Imperial Treasure:
"Did you touch her skin - or just rub her jumper?"
"The skin," knowing smirk.
"Did you French Kiss?"
"Of course," expanded chest.
"Did you touch First Base?"
"Every base," cocky swagger.
So I carry her books;
mumbling and stumbling,
weedling and needling,
hoping and moping,
and scheming, trying and crying.
Then she laughs with me
and my dragon sleeps in a sheltered cave.
Plucking The Plum Blossom From The Roof:
Suppressed laughter and stumbles on the stairs.
Loud whispers and fumbling fingers.
Harsh gasps and low soft moans.
Too soon gone - too soon come.
Picking The Moon From The Bottom Of The Sea:
Saying goodbye each day is no longer hard
when once more my moon rises
from the depths of your sea.
Have we really made this?
Miniature scrunched up face,
tiny, tiny nails,
podgy little toes?
So small that I am afraid to touch.
- ah, but love is just a game -
COLOUR HER SAD
Colour her sad as she sits and cries
Her first dog dead
Friend, companion, confessor
She stares through the window
Searching for reasons
And whispers, "Goodbye."
- ‘nough said -