Love letter to my hero


Will you, my six-footer

come to my little abode

as a hailstorm

this weeknight?

I’m sure your supple mind

won’t welch inter alia.

I know your meat and potatoes,

I’m not petulant,

these days you’re lukewarm,

it makes me warm.

Be sure this vigilant virgin

would wait for you

to touch the moon,

to peek immaculate  stars,

to tally the sands

and to  float in the sky

as the  air and birds.

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