(Love on the net)

By Bruno Kampel




As long as the sensing of your absence be so touchable, I'll solely be able to cuddle the scars of my memories. Cuddles of waiting, training for the moment when the keyboard of my computer be replaced by the lacework of your skin, and my loneliness be dead and buried, drowned in the slits of your lips.
While your email be my unique and cold comfort, I'll almost  be able to caress the lack of your presence. Love's caress, praying for my dream become reality, and then, to nail in your soul the meaning of my poems; to paint in your life the cooing of my petting; to sew in your heart the taste of my vowel-rhyme; to draw in your mind the outline of my warmness; to sculpt in your understanding the sureness of my presence; and - better than all - to throw into oblivion the remembrance of your absence.









Last night

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