Subtle Beauties
Living moments, tangled in memory.
The fog of rain over city skylines, the planet
awash with grey. Your worn fingers
//
kissing my chest, drawing pictures in my flesh--
untethering my scars from my brain.
//
The smell of sweat after sex, hands filling
my hair, weaving through knots.
//
Laughter.
Petrichor.
//
Mist slowly seeping; her gentle body
sinking into Earth's folds.
//
The shine of Earth's skin, atmosphere
saturated with sadness. My body
//
the middle spoon between You
and old, greying fur. Paws stretching
into hands--big stretch--kneading.
//
Claws pricking my fingertips.
My blood staining the surface. Green eyes
widen and blink, slow.
//
The sound of their small bodies, rumbling.
A euphony of small hearts,
beating.
//
The soft of Your cheek as it yields
to my lips. The texture of Your shoulder
//
buried
against my mouth, our arms tightly bound.
//
The cold rain pelting our backs as we run
inside--keys left far behind.
//
Red break lights illuminating us, grasping
the details of Your skin. Subtle threads--
//
a history entangled
in memory. My need
//
to kiss You. Language
coiling down my tongue like a bullet
//
verbatim: vibrations orbiting
our personal solar systems. The stars
//
and sky--reflecting in Your eyes. Your soul
reaching out
//
to mine.
//
Whines, unhinged, roaring from four-legged bodies:
canine melodrama candidly melting
against me. Their eyes a pool
of unadulterated love.
//
Music strumming the air--a universe
tucked beneath us, revealed
//
briefly
through us, into our minds.
//
Piano keys below fingers: entangled
sounds
//
freed.
Quiet worlds existing around us, unnoticed. Coded
//
genius living inside tiny mechanical brains;
interacting, inspiring. The comfort of the strange.
//
The strangeness of comfort.
//
Your body reassurance, engulfing me as I cry.
Your mouth wet against mine, eyes
//
closed, whispering:
It's okay to cry.
//
Your hands warm, fingers intertwined.
The tethering of bed at night, our bodies
//
settling. The subtle beauty of simply resonating--
hearts
//
below ribcage, a rainbow
below skin--
//
waking up,
and breathing in.
About the Creator
Corvus
Corvus is a kaleidoscope of Gothic word-craft, stuck somewhere within the hurricanes of prose and poetry and wrung out on each page. Find more fragments of the love letter on their website, corvuslove.
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