Each time they met in the narrow hall
she flushed fuchsia from neck to forehead.
He lingered in her presence, tried to stall
her with repartee, while feet felt like lead.
She was single, nursing a broken heart.
He was married, a fact he did not deny.
With an air of candor, they sipped drinks after dark,
hypnotic sparks ignited their eyes.
This spellbinding love set them both at sea,
they could not bear to be separated.
Making love, they were who they wanted to be,
young bodies ceaselessly titillated.
They talked, they panned when to take the next step
‘til reality dawned–too tough a concept.
Written for: http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/mid-week motif/love
Pick an age to speak from in 14 lines.