The rhythmic pattern, chestnut locks flow eloquently o’er the wind as she speaks. A sort of poetry does clutter her lips and birds sing along in key. Every word said in rhyme follows the beat of my heart’s merriment. Fish confuse her voice’s flow for stream and dance along to her melodic verse. Her kiss defeats the tales of a love-lost and lust-lorn man and paints on my collar a new hope and serenity. Her kiss feels like company to the broken and battered. Her absence is lonely and leaves her missed like the sun misses the moon on a tired, hot afternoon. Her sequenced and lacy and cloth-like hands are gentle and keen to the touch. They soften the soul of a hardened man like blankets sewn into the rough.
-Stephen J. Dawson Jr.
I wrote this when I was 13-years-old so go easy on me.