Worth Waiting For

July 9, 2012
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Laced with prairie dreams,
Her hair is like the silken strands of a song
Reaching its roots from her scalp

As he holds her, the locks brush against his face:

Thunderbolts of electric infatuation.

Eyes glinting blue



Hearts poured like cold lemonade into fragile glass bottles.

His love is a shimmer upon her skin, and the daylight clenched in her fists.
Her love is an ember within his irises and the arc of his bones.

They whisper to each other a patchwork quilt of their tenderness
But don’t put stitches in their hearts:

Those they leave open.

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