little sinners

the things i’ve seen

do not hold up

to her

eyes

the icy greens and blues

of arctic waters,

but piercingly warm

thin lips,

perfect lips,

the lightest kissably pink

of lips

and off the slope

of unseasoned cheeks

in long slow shapes

of   S

her insouciant hair flows

  what it would be to

  kiss that dimpled chin,

  to nuzzle upon that

  pale neck and breast

  my thoughts are

  little sinners that

  run up to me asking

  if its ok to stay and play

  i tell them yes

  since they asked me

  nicely

  and she is surely

  someone we may

  never meet