It has been a habit to stop whatever I am doing every hour,
and recall the movement of your tongue inside me.
It moved the way paint is being brushed on the wall,
and sometimes, the way earth is being swept by a tornado.
It seems odd that you are very fond of me.
I can almost picture myself as a red wine kept for years,
poured into a glass; and you were the drinker who saved it
for a rare and special occasion.
YOU ARE READING
About Her
PoesiaPoems are her feelings She wants to keep private But she wants everyone to know
