He is beautiful. Each line of his
etched face has been carved by my fingers;
I feel him now; soft and warm beneath
my skin. Deep in concentration, the
creases upon his forehead, and the hands
in rapid motion; writing, writing. His hands
move through his hair, and the sigh of a weary
day flows from his aching neck, his back, his
shoulders. He rubs his eyes with the balls of his
hands, and his exhaustion lets his wandering gaze
fall upon me. He is beautiful.
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*cough* Mr Young *cough*
ReplyDeleteMella!!!!!
ReplyDeleteplease refrain from such inappropriate comments! :P
this poem is not specifically about anyone...what made you think it was him??
:)
xx
"His hands
ReplyDeletemove through his hair…
…his aching nack, his back, his
shoulders"
I think the main object that you were supposed to be looking at was the board…:P