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c-e-smithPoems
If he were a canvas, My fingers through his dark hair Would be gentle whips of cornflower Or the shade of the southern shores Aching for sun kissed sands. The deep tint of the midnight hour Is the feel of my palm on his cheek; Unspoken words spark between our skin, Igniting as I am red phosphorus and he is sulfur. If he were a canvas, Our breathless laughter Is a warm canary radiating Across all the dark spaces we ignore Like solitary candles in suburban windows. Our hushed voices on the pillow Is the gold with which the sun shines; The reflection of my heart in his eyes Is silver like a glowing full moon. If he were a canvas, My lips gently grazing his forehead Are a soft powder pink, Like the petals of an awakening rose Or the shade of clouds draped in dawn But when mine meet his, amaranth. A ceaseless incandescence Of raw desire and a hint of diffidence From a flower seeded in our gray matter. When he touches my skin It’s in shades of pine and dandelion and wisteria And suddenly I see the painting Has covered the painter in romantic chaos And it is the apron they put on display.
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Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
An Ode to a Magnum Opus
If he were a canvas, My fingers through his dark hair Would be gentle whips of cornflower Or the shade of the southern shores Aching for sun kissed sands. The deep tint of the midnight hour Is the feel of my palm on his cheek; Unspoken words spark between our skin, Igniting as I am red phosphorus and he is sulfur. If he were a canvas, Our breathless laughter Is a warm canary radiating Across all the dark spaces we ignore Like solitary candles in suburban windows. Our hushed voices on the pillow Is the gold with which the sun shines; The reflection of my heart in his eyes Is silver like a glowing full moon. If he were a canvas, My lips gently grazing his forehead Are a soft powder pink, Like the petals of an awakening rose Or the shade of clouds draped in dawn But when mine meet his, amaranth. A ceaseless incandescence Of raw desire and a hint of diffidence From a flower seeded in our gray matter. When he touches my skin It’s in shades of pine and dandelion and wisteria And suddenly I see the painting Has covered the painter in romantic chaos And it is the apron they put on display.
c-e-smith
Written by
c-e-smith
American
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC
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