The bay window

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I haven’t seen her in a month of sundays,

Her fragrance always left me wanting more,

Upstairs by the window, adored,

The second sunday of the month.

I was sure she was an act of god,

The bad type, uncontrollable,

When she left, I was inconsolable,

The last Sunday of the month.

I sat by the same window,

Dreaming of her company,

Hungering for her love for me,

The third Sunday of the month.

I met her purely by accident,

A friend of a friend, but better,

I looked in her soul, knew I could get her,

That was a month of Sundays.

Broken heartsDesertionLoveSunday

◄ Ambient

Dishonest Nostalgia ►


<Deleted User> (8134)

Thu 29th Apr 2010 22:09

Thanks :) I am having a creative week, somehow managing to write a poem every day or two!

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Ann Foxglove

Thu 29th Apr 2010 22:01

Hi Joseph. Another good poem. Nice sideboard too! ;-)

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