Pale Midnight. (Infatuation, 2)
Who are we when our bodies touch?
When the sighs of my skin—dark as the bark of a tree beneath the night—reach your lips?
When your fingers—muted sunlight against a window pane, often mixed with clouds—learn me?
Who are we when we part?
With guilt. (Feel nothing but me.)
With rejection. (Take nothing but me.)
With desire. (Accept me.)
Over shudders
And whimpers and
Pleas reaching peaks,
Midnight calls.
Won't you answer?
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
Pale Midnight. (Infatuation, 2)
Who are we when our bodies touch?
When the sighs of my skin—dark as the bark of a tree beneath the night—reach your lips?
When your fingers—muted sunlight against a window pane, often mixed with clouds—learn me?
Who are we when we part?
With guilt. (Feel nothing but me.)
With rejection. (Take nothing but me.)
With desire. (Accept me.)
Over shudders
And whimpers and
Pleas reaching peaks,
Midnight calls.
Won't you answer?
Interracial *** and interactions between those who weren't meant to be.