Amare Moura.
She rests
at 5 feet
and grasps 115lbs.
Sometimes
I still hear her
breathing
next to me.

She was perfect,
with crystal blue vision
and champagne locks.
I knew she'd float away,
someday.

Her smirks kept her strong
and she never
made eye contact.
She enjoyed the color purple
because she vowed
it would never be her favorite.
She was in love with red-
a color that skewed her aura
of innocence.
Her kisses
gave her away every time.
God, she could kiss-
and she did.

Everyone loved
how she'd blush.
Though she looked angelic
and deep down
we knew she wasn't,
no one could
figure out why she blushed.
It was as mysterious
as each of her kisses
because sometimes,
God tell us,
she would refuse a kiss.

I never could reach
a further distance
than her honey-thick kisses.
In guilt
for fantasizing about her
in twisted, erotic ways,
(oh, but she
trapped
my thoughts
in her sheets,)
I left her.

Sometimes I still feel her
swimming
toward me,
I can hear her dainty gulps,
and the waves her arms make wrap around my waist
and then she sinks.
I let her sink,
because I know I can have her
no other way.

Amare Moura.
Somewhere,
she's still resting at 5 feet,
carrying 115 lbs.
Sometimes I can still hear her
breathing,
but it's only because
I wish she was on my side
of the bed,
and only she.

I wish I'd have
wished for this
earlier.
 
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