soft like the velvet of her cheek pressing up against his own, worn.
the slender figure of intimacy is with open arms,
she sings like a siren to men from broken ships, sails torn.
she is a ghost.
fleeting through my dreams,
inside the smallest brush of fingertips.
somehow,
she permeates the entire essence of a jaded heart.
lady, you are how i breathe.
so why am i holding my breath?
you are a ghost.
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