A Vintage Bookstore In Berkeley

Soft and gentle, as surrender.
His words could have rocked an ocean to sleep.
I wanted to lay in his bed of roses, upon his sheets of poetry.
I wanted him!
Thousands of butterflies seemed to have fluttered my thoughts!
The floor beneath me disappeared, and left me floating on air.
My fingers reached for my lips
As he spoke of picking peaches off their vines
 And sipping Summers heat!
I could hear afterthoughts beckoning me to kick off my heels
And toss them to the understanding god’s of love!
 I wanted to feel the heat of the moment from his every breath!
And then there were the stairs
To the left of me.
Where I could write myself into his story.
I sat down on the fifth stair, longing for his invitation and sensual cravings!
Each word nibbled at the lace of my womanhood, ever so lightly
Untying my will to hang on!
Oh why was he making me wait!?
Need was calling him from the stairs.
His masculine approach was reaching for my last remaining lace!
We could have made love there…on those stairs
In the moments of great height’s of making love!
But he could never be mine.
His words belonged on the pages in a book that I was reading
In a vintage bookstore in Berkeley.
Soft and gentle, as surrender
He will forever be rocking an ocean to sleep,
Without me in his bed of roses, without me upon his sheets of poetry.
Never shall always be
To never roll on his waves, now gone to sleep.
Myth*.
©Myth2019 (all rights reserved)

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