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a rapturous thud,
against a warm chest,
a red blush,
flowed up from her breast,
the colour of a rose bud.

her distant eyes,
wander the room,
never looking into thy own,
inescapable doom,
where she will then die.

her fluttering heart,
beats in her chest,
a longing to be free,
strong at best,
to be shot out like a dart.

a hoarse voice,
echoes throughout,
her warm hands,
hold me without doubt,
this, was my choice.