Tara Staunton Aspiring poet, photographer and genetic scientist. Lover of life, art, literature and sunshine

Is that you, my fair love,

Who steadily breathes,

Is it you sweet bodies warmth,

I sense in the dark,

Are those your white fingers,

That caress the doors edge,

.

I call to you,

But silent you remain.

.

Why my dear love,

Do you linger so still,

Does the cold rush of the night not,

Blush your skin blue,

.

Come my love,

through the half open door.

Come sweet apparition,

and be cold no more