"on her quaint good-bye" #47

She rang the door bell with her gentle feel.
I posed an end to our first good-bye to see,
a feeling an utterance of soul from her kiss,
feeling her face with my hands flowers bliss.

From that moment on nothing was too passe,
everything was new like a moment passing,
on a spring day with the fresh smell of country,
permeated on the senses contrite.

She was as beautiful as a new day,
on which has fallen quite nice as if to say,
unlike the other days more like perfection,
that makes you forget the worlds reflection.

As I stumble upon her world of flash,
not to realize the price that had splashed,
the cameras are like tiny pistols that shoot,
upon my closing little test tube boot.

Her loves experiment of which I exist,
from her minds queries of which I enlist.
Only from dreams could this be fathomed her trace,
written on fabric whistled spring lace.

On winds I float, float off in the harbor,
awaiting her last look, floating on her charter,
my ticket says you win on her world of whim,
Cast off on her quaint good-bye with loves wish.