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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: April 26, 2016

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Submitted: April 26, 2016



She is the wonder
of my days, Henry
says, the one who
makes the turning
of the hands of time
seem slow, or seemingly
not to move or go,
or make time as lost
as gods of old, or tick
of clocks as tittle-tattle
of nagging tongues have told.

She is the center of my life,
the being by whom I judge
all others who come my way,
or who's beauty does not
match hers, as hers is beyond
their measure, despite their
use of oils or paint or perfume
bathed or painted nails,
hers is my favoured beauty,
where that of others always
to my eye fails.

She is the maker of my day,
my hours and minute's promise,
whose skin smooth as silk
as soft as lamb's wool touch,
I love her deeply, love her much.

She is my treasure beyond compare,
she whose touch by fingertips
or breath or hint of hair's feel
against mine in moments togetherness,
burns me up within and without
with passion high, with kisses
doubled blessed, in touches fine,
and warm, and hot, that I am,
and who, I know not.

She is in my secret thoughts,
my silent muses, my heart's
deep plunge, as days be dark
or bright or take me in depression
to blackest night, she is my angel,
my one and only light.

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