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Harry Wells Harry Wells
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soul mates

I know it sounds trite but I wrote it about my wife.

The warmth from her bare arm as she passes,

The sudden catch of her body’s fragrance,

The ghost of a nipple seen through the weave

When she tries on her new dress for me,

Maybe her hand hanging languid from the wrist

While she tells me how she spent her day,

A whisper of lace peeking from her sleeve,

That appealing delta between her toes

When like today she wears her Mary Janes,

Her arched back as she finger-dries her hair.

These jewels, shapes and colours I reflect

In my kaleidoscope of perceptions.

These I shall love in my retrospections. 1 comment

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