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| He won't touch with his hands, But with his fingertips. Soul connects with soul And darkness collides with The bluish-gray streaks of My dying light. He won't speak But will throw prickly intimacies Into the thin, electric air. He won't demand But will beg. Silently. Plead With eyes stricken with Hunger pangs. And I give in To the misguided summons of my Starved soul. Him, Feeling too strong. I, Feeling too weak. Passion rages against sense, And sense falters with a final, dying Cry. I am thrown where olden Hands don't touch. Where only him can Reach me. And I Let him wash over the dying flames With a new dampness. I let him… And oh, how he touched me. The stranger touched me. |
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