Virgin.

She sits by her window
staring out,
The world so wide,
secretive and silent.
Grasps her knees, draws them in.
Skin touching Skin,
gently.
No finger prints marked but hers.
She watches the snow
untouched,
just like her.
It’s just like her,
pale and fragile and
pure.
Seen by everyone
but slowly
melting away.
Both waiting.
For that one to leave the permanent mark.
So that label that is
glued, stapled, stamped
can be ripped away
which hangs above
her head.

Happy Readings.

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Virgin.

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