Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2011
perhaps *******
are unaware of themselves
until they blossom at the touch of
the cold
or
hungry hands
mapping
the topography of skin. perhaps
they wait
for lips and ivory teeth
to explain every pregnant
pause in your touch;
each time we undress our bodies
are new again.
we emerge
from the cocoon of bedlinens
coloured and crumpled and
left to dry in the sun.
Vidya
Written by
Vidya
1.0k
   Mel, C and Joel M Frye
Please log in to view and add comments on poems