a love letter
but with no letters.
Lucious, the lips of my temptress
From which she curses.
Cloudy, the eyes of my vixen,
From where I see reflections—
Comparisons.
These names they give you, my sullen siren—
Though you don’t indulge in,
Though you don’t encourage—
They write you a poem
nonetheless,
To my mistress, they address.
I reread, and I confess
That
of course men are mistaken—
of course I am.
You are not one of them,
Not a seductress subdued by her innocent inexperience,
Nor a man, whom brands with such carless penmanship.
You are not these simple syllables uttered between fools who’ve no chance,
And though of course I don’t endorse it,
I hope these words that I have written,
shall lead me to moments longer than minute glances.
—
So here I sit…
with will to begin…
the stationairy all set, the ink ready to dance…
Though I digress, am I being too impulsive? Yes.
One does not simply write a love letter, no they…
About the Creator
Harleen 🤎
just some words on a page, but they mean so much more than that✨🤎 :)
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