She was a women who walked like the world belonged to her,
and as I watched her weave through the wilderness,
I had no choice but to concede that it did.
She had the kind of eyes that I’d been trying to describe for a decade.
My pen in peril, picking at run on sentences and rare combinations of the same six similes that I’d learned to rely on until there was an explosion of ink.
She dabbed at my dress with a soft, satin handkerchief,
but it was no use,
I would never be clean of her claim on me,
and I had no wish to be,
So I just stared into the soft waves of the ocean,
the calm night’s sky,
and the eyes that were like sweet sapphires,
until she understood that I belonged to her, completely.
She was just the kind of girl who got on with things,
and amid my drama, and all my agonising, I had to admit that I found it refreshing,
so what could I do,
but follow her fanciful fantasies to their conclusion?
To wander the calm night’s sky, seeking out her trail became my magnificent obsession,
with sore shoulders and a sure fire sense that something beautiful was blooming inside of us,
like a desperate woman in a desert,
until I found the sweet oasis of her all consuming, all singing, all dancing affection,
and I will never stop drinking.
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