Blog Dis

When last he touched me,
illuminated my innocent skin,
with his keen sight, he stroked me,
and passed his gaze down, in front.

To my breast, he kissed me,
in a moment of inevitability,
he created a memory,
I would cling to,

of him, of his scent,
no cologne lay claim to,
occupying the belief
in my mind,

of an unusual man,
and his sensibility of touch,
takes me asunder.
Will he remember me tomorrow?

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy