No love is as overwhelming and as pristine,
As the maiden love of a lass, say of sixteen.
When, like closed petals of a bud she begins to unfold
Herself, blossoming into a fragrant rose or marigold.
She seeks a hand to hold and wants hers as well be held,
In secluded privacy, from the outside world as if shelled.
She wants to love and be loved, to touch and be touched,
Promises never to leave the hand that she fondly clutched.
Standing on the crossroads of childhood and puberty,
She seeks a soul mate, not one who is always flirty.
She feels lonely at ...
A Gentle Touch
When you touch me, I can say it's you
Even if my eyes are closed.
For your palms are like text books
That I've read so many times over,
And so they appear so familiar.
When your breath falls on my back,
I can say it's you, without turning around,
For my back has known no other warmth.