Lying ‘cross the crook of my legs
by L. Stewart Marsden
Lying ‘cross the crook of my legs
She neither complains
Nor does she beg a thing from me,
Content is she to comfort there
And hope that I might stroke her hair
Or not,
It’s not that she must have my hand
Or have my voice
Or have my love —
She doesn’t think those things aloud
But nestles in quite close to me
Where she can relish in the warmth
And share her inner feelings there —
The beating of her tiny heart
The nuzzling of my sleep-dead arm
The licking of my stubbled face
She is content in all of these
Lying ‘cross the crook of my legs.
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