Make note. Draw in your subject.
Seek her when you have another.
Meet her gaze, bring them upon you.
Leave.
Return the next day.
She must have been a new-age Isolde.
Wait.
Leave.
And yet your heart beckons you again, alone.
She meet with triumph.
A half hour later
You assume courage.
Stumble into audacious prologue.
She looks you through
Gooseflesh.
And when you are done,
She asks instead to be wooed.
Leave.
A chore at hand, an epic climb.
You meet, once more
Luring her in with Shelley
Whispering Herrick
Tantalizing finally with silken sheets.
Leave.
Thirty and seven days on.
The Victorians now exhausted.
Almonds and lilies, finding no nooks.
Not one titilating crevice.
Leave.
What be it the matter,
Not Me, says the Man.
Confrontation in the Valley.
Coyness, she plays up and then
Down.
Divulging finally, that marriage be it
A way, in
Fuming now, he sees every woman,
'You wish solely, to wear a band
And for it, you withold.'
Leave. Certain.
----------------------------------
Beside herself,
She wonders if she is every woman,
Saint, Mother, Prostitute, Muse, Lover, Giver, Madame
Must she forget her undertakings
Forgo,
And be
Every woman?
---------------------------------
Just something I wrote...
xoxo and the likes,
Privy Lil' Lotus
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