I Will Love You

Moving my hand I rub on the silk, that covers the face I can feel. Pulled as far up and then again down, her eye's open wide as it pops. Pink as far, as far as is seen and no rest, from the end, to my belly and back, on a string and the ache of the heart never seen. Queer is the feeling I get from rubbing the silk, under the touch of the moon. Inside, side to side, the length and the depths you do dream. A feather here can't be felt, though the thumb Rubbing, rubs until it grows numb, oil flows from the bud of the rose. There is nothing about small that she likes, his trying to look in side the wide pupils, her eyes. Not being her father, her brother or uncle, oysters freshly eaton, the shells I toss out with the tide.