The little girl hugs and kisses me,
I feel her lips melt on mine,
and how her body trembles,
from fear and longing.
in silence,
still unfinished mountain houses,
it smells like early spring
and her small apple breasts,
the evening mists are foaming
and feels the wetness of the rain
in an erotic atmosphere.
She leans on her toes,
cling your thighs tight to me,
adjusts round hips,
your rounded belly,
he drowns his motionless eyes
in my pupils
and kiss, kiss.
I put my signature,
lips, on her neck bent,
while intoxicated by sins, my little girl fades
and like a butterfly flutters in place.
we were wrong
tell me
in one moment of sweetness and fire,
stopping our breathing,
blown away by the wind.
we were wrong
he told me with even greater fear
breaking away from the embrace,
running down the glade and
blowing wet kisses,
on young skin.
My eyes can’t reach her. 
Alan Morgan Monica
