The Riddle

The  picture in my
head is blue and
blonde; fronded hair
an azure stare, he
likes to wear
sandshoes  black and white

a body  neat, taut, trim
fingers light of touch
startle, make
skin tighten, senses
overbrim,  I        

like the shirts he wears, I
like his thighs beneath his
jeans, he bemuses  me with
repetitions and a
past in its repeatings; thus

I toss                 ;
all power
to the winds,
letting loose my life again

I fall inside the circle
of his arms
trusting fate
not  to harm this

and  wonder
if I'm too late
for  such beginnings.
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