You were captivated by her, as any man would have been:
Cute, smart, young, and always willing;
and though you never laid hands on her tender, tight, warm body,
The Memory of the Touch of Her Flesh burns through you
like a welder's torch:
and time stops,
and a whistle blows,
and the top of your head flies off,
and your brain dances on the floor,
while it rains
while it rains,
because all that pleasure
was worth all these pains.
December 23, 2008
Copyright © 2008, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.