Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Your heart is not a bureaucrat,
waiting on tax returns.

Nothing is in writing,
nor verbal contract.
The only inking is flushed skin upon contact.

It is implied.
It's the high road.
It's when the bed shakes during a storm;
It's when the grass grows again in the morning.
One day we won't have this skin.
Our bright eyes may even sink.
Without Summer days,
or our cheap wine for veins.

Though we had coming things,
though we had dreams,

we couldn't know.

The past only a day ago,
then two years to four.
Eight seemed a ways,
now,
A decades erased.

Time seems the *****,
too steep to be paved.
5/07/18
You were the it,
the only thing.
The inspiration I hadn't yet met.
The hypothetical metaphor,
in story book prose.
A wordless poem between our mouths,
A painting of breathtaking and gentle sounds.
The ethereal only you and I can feel,
And a storybook for everyone around.
12/15/16
His abrasive lips,
her soft longing.
Together part an eclipse,
gently under awnings.
And they'll stay like this,
fire-lit til the morning.
Sharing whatever it is,
lovers do til the dawn ends.
10/10/17
Next page