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Model For An Artist
Oh, love... my love,
stir not, lest your
image fail in my senses.
Cast not that upward glance
but stare ahead into
sweet nothingness
that my view be not despoiled.
Say naught,
for fear the movement of
your dimpled mask,
by lips whose form as perfect
as an Angel's harp, parts...
ever so gently,
to sigh,
softly, sweetly,
but sighs not.
