You are my Egypt. Warm dry sandy skin slipping through my fingers, blue rivers dipping and winding under your skin. A heart of paradise and honey, filled with the spirits of kings and gods. Every inch of you is a monument, a shrine to some old glorious memory, untouchable by the ravages of time or even made more beautiful and valuable. A constellation of red stars rise over your back and face, spiralling into green-brown oases, cool and soothing.
You’re blinding. You are the slim strength of an obelisk. You whisper stories like sandstorms that could wear down a mountain.
You have a face, a curse. You should be put in a museum. Just one touch.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 12:10 AM UTC
You are my Egypt. Warm dry sandy skin slipping through my fingers, blue rivers dipping and winding under your skin. A heart of paradise and honey, filled with the spirits of kings and gods. Every inch of you is a monument, a shrine to some old glorious memory, untouchable by the ravages of time or even made more beautiful and valuable. A constellation of red stars rise over your back and face, spiralling into green-brown oases, cool and soothing.
You’re blinding. You are the slim strength of an obelisk. You whisper stories like sandstorms that could wear down a mountain.
You have a face, a curse. You should be put in a museum. Just one touch.