Thursday, November 5, 2015

Unmade Bed

A shrine for a beauty once in her birthday suit,
on my birthday, I figured, this birthday would suit.

Calm and collected, snuggled, until passion wrecked-it.
Kisses where the neck-is,  lips where pecks live, kissing French,
passion entrenched,
Held onto her until I was spent, I refused to give her up - this wasn’t Lent.

Red locks of hair, I said thoughts that made her flair.
She said it wasn’t fair, I looked at our contrast and told her she was fair.

Snoozing away, I didn’t know what to say,
so I kissed her where she laid.
Musing stay, drinking tay’ with a splash of honey,
I kissed my honey, then my bed was made…


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