[ .come.my.love. ]
left out of the lamplight, the narrowing edges of your smile seem to mark the ending day, these echo out my every racing need, palms cannot find that same smile, which is slipping as the twilight casts it's candorous grin.
© Bryan McLean April 4, 2010
010/100:2
April 4, 2010
[ .come.my.love. ]
tags
100 Days of Pohems,
poem
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