She stood before me, dressed in sheer delicate fabric,
as the towering trees outside brushed their leaves
against windows, almost tauntingly close.
I sat in my armchair, hands clasped tightly, watching her every move
with a mix of awe and longing.
Seeing Emily Dickinson writing at her desk
Her petite feet, like works of art, trembled with pleasure on the floor.
As a stray beam of sunlight danced across her face, it illuminated her smile
and accentuated the curves of her body.
I leaned in and pressed my lips softly against her ankle, And she let out a soft,
musical giggle that filled the room.
Her laugh was like a symphony of sound,
And it made my heart skip a beat.
She said, “Phillip! Write!”
:: 02.28.2023 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 