Spanish Manners

Bare skinned rough shadows cast flowing streets askew in the mid-day air. The streets, ah, the streets, they are old and worn, worn by many a man, sitting below white pink blue green and many a colored buildings perfectly painted with shining well-kept flower boxes set upon their aged stone. In the square your Spanish manners emulated your black gentle curls, your lips like wine your kiss glazed with tenderness, a tenderness ado to the world that is without. We were here once under moonlit skies we danced and hummed hymns of your gypsy grandmother which you spoke with ease and solemn happiness. My love seeped tender into my heart that I knew would always wait for you. I stroked your skin soft yet wise with age, I felt your lips tingle and sigh your black eyes deep with emptiness. My remembrances are so immaculately bound as I long for your Spanish lips your poetic touch your sin so sweet your romantic punch and your love, ah your love, who could know it and loose it?