His Fingertips
I long to feel a
delirious rush,
I hide in keys that
his fingertips brush.
He types, he pauses,
I'm tickled then teased,
whatever he writes,
I find myself pleased!
Poetry by ardent.March
Read 576 times
Written on 2007-03-21 at 06:16
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Rob Graber |
aliceramone |
Individuality |