Sometimes
one wishes
their gold ring were rung,
as ribbon around mistletoe,
that's thoughtfully hung, in a doorway arch
where two may walk past,
and there,
their lips,
could meet at last.

Sometimes
she wishes
hers "do"s weren't done,
so sown his spine
her fingers could run,
so she could taste
the salt on his skin,
and feel her heart ache
with passions again.

Sometimes i wish
my morals weren't sound,
so in your arms
my body would be found,
where,
i could know,
that sweet bliss of life,

sometimes i wish,
i was not,
another man's wife.