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I am besotted with him,
when after he laid me,
with blinding impression,
first lit by candle.

I swooned when his hand found me,
disturbed the barely held,
liquid in place,
the soiled lace of my garment.

My anticipation overcomes me.
His will too weak
to stay away from my swell.
I smell like no other, he tells me.

In fury, he charges,
and buries his mouth
into my split pear, he slides
and confesses his love to me.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy