It was me.
Real not surrogate,
behind the words.
A way of lips, without
you, with few things to disengage
upon, what the agony demands.
On skin, a lump
was rising― straight
from the animal instinct,
discussing the religion of predators.
A manhood was
in peril, unregarded by
otherness. You want to collect the scars now.
Because you belong to me
like a moon to earth.
We both were moving in different
orbits, trying to touch each
other, undying, for sun.
It breaks the heart, when
it is moonless night.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 7:39 PM UTC
It was me.
Real not surrogate,
behind the words.
A way of lips, without
you, with few things to disengage
upon, what the agony demands.
On skin, a lump
was rising― straight
from the animal instinct,
discussing the religion of predators.
A manhood was
in peril, unregarded by
otherness. You want to collect the scars now.
Because you belong to me
like a moon to earth.
We both were moving in different
orbits, trying to touch each
other, undying, for sun.
It breaks the heart, when
it is moonless night.