Tuesday, June 30, 2009


I hear my name softly called
It is your voice that whispers
It is the wind in the firs.

I feel the touch of your fingers
at the nape of my neck.
They trail down... down... and stop.
Your caresses are only raindrops.

Wind pushes the hair back from my face
Rain pelts my mouth with a kiss
I close my eyes and accept with grace
The substitute for your love is this.

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