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She had been shelved
all these nine years.
He carefully brought her down,
dusted her off, this poem.
She lay on his desk,
naked before the poet
and his quill.

His words ran down
the length of her.
Her long legs,
her breasts,
the nape of her neck,
the dark eyes,
flowing hair.
A beauty exposed,
yet harbored
in the haven
of his pacific gaze.

Beautiful, said he,
but not yet perfect.
he lay her face down
and began to massage
his words into flesh
with his hands, his mouth,
from the tender feet,
up the legs,
a kiss at the small of her back.
Kneading,
working
his life into her.

He stands her up,
staring at his art,
his love,
still-life.

Just one more thing, Love,
he says, it only hurts
for a moment.
He takes his quill to pierce his lip,
dribbling blood into the crimson of a candle,
then pours the wax where lips would be.

While the wax burns his lips,
he embraces her,
tightly,

for the kiss,

the deep kiss that congeals her lips,
and softens her form
into breathing,
into life.

She, the living poem, opens her eyes.
“You are free, my love.”

She returns that embrace
in a way that speaks

goodness,
perfection,
thankfulness,

and goodbye

as she slips from his arms
and skips through the door
as a child.

He smiles, watching her go,
then turns back to the shelves.

“So many poems,”
he thinks,
joyous.

( posted for DversePoets – open link night )

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