Poetry

Prosaic

In the glow of your charismatic grace, I feel prosaic
Lackluster and ordinary
Not so special

You smile at me

Around these other women, I feel homely
Unpretty and plain
Not so lovely

You see me behind them

Damned by my own doubt
Yet
Encouraged by your furtive, shy glances

Will I will my lips to move beyond a stoic purse and speak the poetry I’ve already written for you in my heart?

Will I take your hand, lead you to my bed, so that I might know you and you me?

Will I lead you to my glistening depths, let you fill me, so we both know ecstasy?

Or will we let these maybe moments linger on the air between us while we drown in monotony, pretending we don’t see each other?

Meet me in the middle

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