At night I reach for you, but you're not there. I wait, hear heels that tap across the floor. It must, most certain be a trap, a snare, Cruel trick, the phantom step beyond the door. In breathless trepidation do I wait For you, just you, no'ne else but you will do. “I do,” the words I've spoken much too late To bind our troth and make our life anew. Dear Kate, I beg, please come to me again. With heaving bosom, dance with me a turn. Such perfect grace together we attain That even Rose, her favor we might earn. Alas, I wish that this were but a dream, In fact, I fear it's all that it doth seem.
Monica lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two foster dogs. She taught parents how to raise their toddlers for twenty-five years before retiring in 2015 to write. The secret to toddlers is to make sure you get enough sleep. Monica hasn't found the secret to writing, yet, but is diligently working at it. See her on-line stories in the profile links.
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