Is he my lover if we never properly made love?
Because I felt love.
With smooth chests pressed as closely as physically possible.
When his hands trickled over my ribs.
I said, "Don't touch my legs, they are spiky."
He said, "I don't care."
I felt it when I stood on my tiptoes, hungry for one last nibble of his upper lip.
His thin, upper lip.
I miss that upper lip.
A lover, yes, that is what he was.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
Is he my lover if we never properly made love?
Because I felt love.
With smooth chests pressed as closely as physically possible.
When his hands trickled over my ribs.
I said, "Don't touch my legs, they are spiky."
He said, "I don't care."
I felt it when I stood on my tiptoes, hungry for one last nibble of his upper lip.
His thin, upper lip.
I miss that upper lip.
A lover, yes, that is what he was.
Request permission to use this poem