Her soft folds, secret place; pale, little home.
Slipping inside me, my mind, I cannot forget it.
Soft skin, cannot help but touch her.
Stubble of the days before, crushed into her form.
Subtle curves levitate themselves.
Insatiable demand for love, for touch.
Connect myself through palms and fingers.
Simple pleasures, did not recognize the pain.
Dying shapes and blankets leaning.
Outdoor beauty, carpet screenings.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Soft Folds by C. Bake Baker )
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