Jane Doe

Dreamt of a woman,


she doesn’t exist,

unless prescience behooves,

as my nostrils tingle,

sweet smells fill them,

like a meadow of lilacs,

no breeze just warmth,

as silky skin flows beneath me,

my fingertips,

incandescent hairs glean in sunlight’s trust,

longing in caresses and shares,

a cornucopia of shaking heads,

crushed by her tenderness,

her eyes,

her eyes,

all I can see,

in thought,

in shame,

in reference,

her details,

in this fairy tale,

makes more possible…



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