Eight hours in September

The nape of your neck called,
naked, framed by your lustrous coloured hair;
slender to be caressed and kissed;
from a distance I watched you walk;
transfixed.

But make-up is for other men,
hair brushed neatly in a tail that
points over porcelain shoulders
to hips my hands
will never feel.

You leave me with a smile on your mouth
but not reflected in your eyes;
later, alone,
the television repeats yesterday
as does mockingly my love,
my life.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

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