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?
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14 Reviews Added on September 15, 2014 Last Updated on September 15, 2014 AuthorBeccyUnited KingdomAboutI'm forty four, single and have a lovely fifteen year old son called Charlie. I've been writing poetry and short stories since I can remember. I have always been an assiduous reader of poetry and real.. more..Writing
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