Love might as well grow on treesA Poem by Michael OsterhusMy girlfriend, she's just fine; she lives with her parents and her kid however who takes up all her time. I go to dinner and the movies by myself.
My psychologist, she's tall and refined, aged like a fine wine, a sort of sleek design. When we converse I often stare at her hands and imagine them studying my face. She knows my frustration. Were she to prescribe me intimacy, I would much like for her to fulfill my prescription.
My Writing teacher; feminine and petite, on the cute side of meek; prone to fantasy. When she looks at me I like to think she's undressing me for a poem that no one will see. I have an urge to seduce her with words and--for some reason --to carry her across a threshold.
One Figure Drawing class model; young, slender; her skin is tight and smooth, a well-tailored birthday suit. I've drawn her naked for hours, posing innocent as a flower. As I'm tracing the outline of her physique and the music on the radio makes the moment ripe, were she to look at me and listen to my eyes speak, she would hear the course of my mind's debate. For, on the one hand she is something with which I should not aquaint, and on the other, she is the Venus whom Boticelli wanted to paint.
Love might as well grow on trees.
© 2011 Michael OsterhusReviews
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8 Reviews Added on March 19, 2011 Last Updated on March 19, 2011 Author
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