Waiting for the words
They never seem to come out
They never flow
Like the shower running down
Between thin warm skin
Like suds rolling over
And under thighs I lay beside
From underneath
Heated ceilings
Captured candle light
And spring breezes
Feeling that warmth
A hug around the neck
Is it real? Or fake? fake?
A pretender at cause
It’s just for a while
Just for a bit
A secret I hid
Share, kept away
I feel myself
Loosing grip
As the river swarms
Around my feet
And ankles and knees
The under current pulls me
Drowning I go
She watches on
Until I get back
On my feet
And protrude a pencil perfect portrait
A pencil perfect portrait
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.04.02.22:04:00@NYC