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Bury me
Just leave me to rot
Im floating away
There is a demon staring down my soul
Ive been crucified
But my heart still beats
You make me feel like
I am drowning
There somthing lost deep down
I cant feel
I think i am dead
Your tongues
Your eyes burn
You incased my heart
In wax sealing it with a kiss
Scars in slave us
Mutal destruction
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His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress3 days ago in Poets
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