the shadow picks
a nice path on your face;
across planes,
in wells
I never drank from,
on a pink bud
from which I stole
sugar
instead
of
tasting.
Where words slipped
I thieved, not
kissed.
shadow hovers
as a bee
searching
for pollen
in darkness.
It loves all
the places
I missed
because
I substituted French phrases for
your limbs;
spoke to your
light
in a language I didn't quite
know yet
but
sounded
like
like
the poetry found
in light's absence.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
the shadow picks
a nice path on your face;
across planes,
in wells
I never drank from,
on a pink bud
from which I stole
sugar
instead
of
tasting.
Where words slipped
I thieved, not
kissed.
shadow hovers
as a bee
searching
for pollen
in darkness.
It loves all
the places
I missed
because
I substituted French phrases for
your limbs;
spoke to your
light
in a language I didn't quite
know yet
but
sounded
like
like
the poetry found
in light's absence.
