Mirage, or, On the Topic of Romance
Have I ever stopped to appreciate
The soft dip and curve of your hips?
The ridges on your thighs?
The image of you, painted pale in perfect light?
Have I ever sang your praises,
My gentle, fragile azalea?
How your voice floats across the fields
And seeps into my soul?
Forgive me if I have been absent,
It seems these days that people
Do not take kindly to loving
Somebody you have never met.
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