It was written on her brow,
raised above the eye,
questioning and inquiring,
blaming with a sigh.
She had a way about her,
a single minded brain,
and though I just wanted,
she always said the same.
In fantasies we fondle,
like teenagers in the rain,
keeping warm by pressing bodies,
an excuse for the game.
I sigh at gentle memories,
like scavenged bits of tin,
for only in this memory,
will that love begin.
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