The Femme Fatale

On a warm summer morning

She walks in

Like a breathe of fresh mint

Blowing in my face

And I look at her

With my eyes closed

Trying to fathom

What hit me

And to catch that feel

Of what it was

To be truly touched

By an angel

Her body frail

Her hands soft and tender

Almost baby like

And a bit of sweat turns on her forehead

I walk over and ask

What is that ails her

She turns to me

Her eyes reddened

She turns to her wallet

Grabs a spray out of it

Sprays it all over my face

And I,

I learn a lesson

Curiosity may not have killed the cat

But it almost killed me


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