I recited a poem for you,

You listened curiously,

Intent with provocation,

towards your amnesty.

Until you were reciting with me,

word for word,

And I delighted even

trembled at the

beauty displayed before me.

In every whimper,

and I

was left with these

little muffled moans,

craving you,

beaming, you.

sneaking gazes towards mine eyes,

and I started to blush,

I noticed the yellow

canopy of leaves

scatter through the wind,

lay in the grass,

as I wanted to lay in your arms,

spread thin, and I

too followed the direction of the leaf;

knees to the ground,

and the verses continued,

you were stretching your words,

elongated,

charisma shining through

and I was willing

to rush the ending,

you insisted we continue,

slowly,

and we did.

Until it was the end.

I didn’t know you knew

this poem.

I didn’t write it.

Not this time.

“I know the author.” he said.