Smoky Jazz

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The wailing sounds of sadness

Of saxophones and whispering guitars

Massage my ears

The right side of my neck

A hand lingers on the inside of my thigh.

 

The small of my back

Longingly remembers the open lips

That traced my form

Still feels the caress

Of fingers placed lovingly

Like a bookmark…

In that space

That has been empty

Of you…

 

Like my soul

That knows the warmth of your touch

But has forgotten the feeling of you

           this long.

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd 

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