I wrote a tragedy with our lips.
The story of our affair was filled with pages of your fingertips fluttering across my skin.
Paragraphs covered our hidden desires to embrace what we pretended was ours.
There were stolen kisses between the eyes of the public eye;
Metaphors to mask our immorality;
Chapters filled with our indiscretions;
Never quite reaching the ****** we would have called love.
I crafted a leather bound catastrophe of your infidelity where the bookends were our lips, and between them rested the arc of our lust.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 8:30 PM UTC
I wrote a tragedy with our lips.
The story of our affair was filled with pages of your fingertips fluttering across my skin.
Paragraphs covered our hidden desires to embrace what we pretended was ours.
There were stolen kisses between the eyes of the public eye;
Metaphors to mask our immorality;
Chapters filled with our indiscretions;
Never quite reaching the ****** we would have called love.
I crafted a leather bound catastrophe of your infidelity where the bookends were our lips, and between them rested the arc of our lust.
My god, I'm never going to be content with this.
Request permission to use this poem