Wistful fingers
Tickle the dark hairs
Below the shirt sleeve.
Brush the unknown.
Pondering so much, in one small movement.

They roam the contours
Of your flesh;

You signify permission
With your stillness, but
I cannot forget.

It cannot be brushed away so simply
I am not allowed
Even with your assent,
To pretend.

barriersfear of intimacylove's tempeststar crossed lovevaginismus

◄ Enough!

Acknowledgement ►


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Aviva Rifka Bhandari

Wed 16th Jun 2021 03:32

Thank you for commenting Nigel
Thanks also for the like.

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Nigel Astell

Mon 14th Jun 2021 21:21

The last four lines ending with - - -
to pretend
makes this poem come alive.

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Aviva Rifka Bhandari

Mon 14th Jun 2021 18:47

Thank you to Holden Moncrieff for the Like

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