Love poem

She loved the way his hair used to entangle

her fingers: and the smell of his hair, and the weight of his hair, and

the colour and touch of his skin,

and then it would begin, and then it would start: the soul and

the heart that wanted to become one with hers: with what

she had to offer: oh, it

was such a sin and such a pleasure and

such a win, and such a treasure.

 

Now she has only a bleak landscape of distant mirth: all

laughing at her broad, all

studying her, all treating her as nothing

but a specimen to be tagged: and the tag could easily

be one of sheer love, but it clearly isn’t that …

… and it hurts.

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