82 It was the way you touched that book -- Your fingers sliding on its cover -- Your slight detachment from your mood, That made me paint your hues of colors. It was the way you stroked that book -- Your fingers hungry for the touching In slow unwillingness to move -- That made me want to touch your body. It was how you caressed that book-- Your fingers feeling hidden letters And sinking in the cover's hue -- That made me colors on your canvas.







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IRENE CĂSAR
Confined Verse
Collected Poems

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