He had the book over his lap,
His raven locks rubbed my cheek.

We weren't reading the letters, neither of us I believe, but we stood quiet.

How much did it last?
I don't think I know yet;
I just know that all that we could hear,
Was our fast breathing

I just know that we turned,
Both at the same time,
And our eyes met,

And suddenly, there was a kiss.

Dante's creation was the book,
It was his hell.

We looked down at it, and I whispered;

"Do you understand now how a verse can be a poem?"

You answered in ecstasy;

"Yes! I understand now!"

-John

***************

Another not rythmical poem for y'all. I love Becquer, fight me.

Yours truly, feeling very cheesy and reminding you how lovely you are,

•Ely•