No love is as overwhelming and as pristine,
As the maiden love of a lass, say of sixteen.
When, like closed petals of a bud she begins to unfold
Herself, blossoming into a fragrant rose or marigold.
She seeks a hand to hold and wants hers as well be held,
In secluded privacy, from the outside world as if shelled.
She wants to love and be loved, to touch and be touched,
Promises never to leave the hand that she fondly clutched.
Standing on the crossroads of childhood and puberty,
She seeks a soul mate, not one who is always flirty.
She feels lonely at ...
Your extended hands touched me,
But take no offence on me,
I couldn't touch those on a spree.
Though my hands were free,
My feet were chained with a tree.
You were warm but I was not,
As my thoughts were distraught
With moral questions they were fraught.
13 June 2015