Hidden under the covers,
Pink the flesh . Pink the lovers.
Sethe as a bud waits to be bloom, Touch through the fingers, Long caresses short lingers.
Incept of warmth, Incept of thirst. Eyes were filled with a pure-pure lust.
Ridden on roses he rovers,
Smells the Skin . Smells the Soul.
Waiving Canard, Captives the Cupids bow.
Dribbles with deep groans, Trickles while utter moans.
Organs Emulate the other, Fixating fingers into feathers.
Round-n-round strokes on sugar plum . on sweet spot.
Into Buried Jewel, Into Concealed pearl lovingly held.
Smitten by wide-n-dense legs still hovers,
Opens the heart . Opens the lockers.
As parts part , As desires longs submerges skins and shells.
Loin backs-and-for, gives-and-takes love and lore.
Tongue brushes the bush, the land and lips around.
Fire grows and grows, Wildness kisses and kisses to the skies.
Fiery ore moulds, shapes the shadows exhausts in gold.
Juices, so much of Juices . Inside my throat and my back handle with bruises.
Let your lips rest and still, While I eat them and fill.
About the Creator
Sayaam Harz
Passionate about writing and inclined towards details and narration, I live for stories that bend the mind. I don't write just for the sake of it; I write when words appeal to me, when they feel inception-worthy.
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making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskar2 days ago in Feast
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