Have I ever stopped to appreciate

The soft dip and curve of your hips?

The ridges on your thighs?

The image of you, painted pale in perfect light?

Have I ever sang your praises,

My gentle, fragile azalea?

How your voice floats across the fields

And seeps into my soul?

Forgive me if I have been absent,

It seems these days that people

Do not take kindly to loving

Somebody you have never met.