Harvest Me
Stories of your beauty
drift down to me like ash
from a fire
I have not yet been warmed by.
Your absence only singes me,
and though I flame
at the mere mention of you,
still I remain unconsumed.
Don't you understand?
Just the wind of your walking
would be enough to release me,
your glance,
enough to wake me from my dream.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at July 22, 2008 12:54 AM
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