Being sixteenA Poem by BeccyA memory.His hand was delicate in mine, more delicate than I wished it might have been; and on his lips there trembled words untried; like leaves on autumn trees before they die. And in his eyes I saw such sweet despair, a hesitation more than I could bear; and turning, though as in a half spun dream, I tilted to the gently warming sun; then stole a kiss, though brief, still not forgot; sixteen we were, he loved me? Loved me not?
© 2014 BeccyReviews
|
Stats
872 Views
14 Reviews Added on September 15, 2014 Last Updated on September 15, 2014 |

Flag Writing