Sense her pretense.

She never spells it out
When she falls in love
As she cannot spill it out.
You have to smell it out.
She likes to advance
Without being in advance.
The silence is a license.
She impersonates a sleep walker.
When she does so you slip with her.
Her moves are tacit.
Pretext is her whip.
Handle her; you will conquer.
16.05.2001, Pmdi

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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