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genevieve-h-1Poems
Lying with you in black and white, I wonder the significance of a mouth, hands, fingertips. grazing skin. mere body mechanics, or a vessel for a spiraling kinetic? how we become weak to emotion, seemingly pathetic, clinging to eachother leeching off one another's need. I stare into your eyes unabashed. I smile. I wonder how it is that I stare on and be ever taken by the arrangement of your eyelashes, the curve of your lips. My lips are wilted leaves, cracking against the flow of your rejuvenation. my eyes feel heavy and dry but I stare on, alive. the shadows take away hesitation as it shades your words black and white, sepia, blue. your hands of ginger, hot and sweet, melt the frost clinging to my back created by the rush turning my gut as I ache toward dark whiperings. I want to utter the same, but I know I can never replicate your dulcet timbre. I sound so plain. Instead I trickle my lips across your face. My soul cries out, Ours are made for love antique In an instant world.   It pains me to budge from this bind. I wonder how fingertips may convey what in the light we scarcely can define.
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Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 10:58 PM UTC
Kinetic
Lying with you in black and white, I wonder the significance of a mouth, hands, fingertips. grazing skin. mere body mechanics, or a vessel for a spiraling kinetic? how we become weak to emotion, seemingly pathetic, clinging to eachother leeching off one another's need. I stare into your eyes unabashed. I smile. I wonder how it is that I stare on and be ever taken by the arrangement of your eyelashes, the curve of your lips. My lips are wilted leaves, cracking against the flow of your rejuvenation. my eyes feel heavy and dry but I stare on, alive. the shadows take away hesitation as it shades your words black and white, sepia, blue. your hands of ginger, hot and sweet, melt the frost clinging to my back created by the rush turning my gut as I ache toward dark whiperings. I want to utter the same, but I know I can never replicate your dulcet timbre. I sound so plain. Instead I trickle my lips across your face. My soul cries out, Ours are made for love antique In an instant world.   It pains me to budge from this bind. I wonder how fingertips may convey what in the light we scarcely can define.
(in progress.)
genevieve-h-1
Written by
genevieve-h-1
American
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 10:58 PM UTC
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