Before I started this blog, I hadn’t really written anything but e-mails for nearly twenty years, so I need all the practice I can get. I swore never to write any poetry for this blog. Here it is:
The memory of touch.
It’s been hours since we were together
And still
The warmth of your skin warms mine.
The soft, slow waves of your breath
Are gone from me now
And still
They stir the fine hairs on my neck and shoulder,
A touch without touching.
The weight of you
Still
The smell of you
Still
Jesus lady!
It was a bank queue,
Not a conga line!
You need to learn about personal space
Before you fall pregnant
On the five o’clock bus.
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LOL!! Love it! I was right there with you throughout the intimacy, so the closing paragraphs caught me totally unawares. 😀
Thank you for visiting.
Wow you iz so wacky ! 🙂 I consider myself well and truly *tickled*
Thanks for dropping by..
Aaaaaah! So she found you too!
….sent her to you, actually… <– did I just say that out loud?!!
Don't you just lurve it when you can smell someone an hour before they arrive?!!
Brilliant post! Thanks for the chuckle.
She doesn’t need to find you. She’s always there. I think the bank pays her to encourage people to switch over to internet banking.
*Snork* Made my morning, thanks!
heehee! such little buddies!!
They’re called bee eaters. That’s how they sleep when it’s cold.
that’s amazing
And cute.
the cutest.
Like a freshly plucked nose hair, this brought tears to me eyes… and that lingering feeling that I needed to sneeze.
Sadly, I have reached the age where I know that feeling all too well. Long nose hairs serve absolutely no evolutionary purpose and are the best evidence we have for the existence of a vengeful god.
Dear Charming Husband
You are such a chop! If you start writing me poetry, though, I might let you back into the house.
Love from
The Long-suffering Wife
She meant nothing to me, I swear. We were just two strangers, sharing a moment. And six square inches of floor space.