His hands. His fingers.
He is the painter
that paints a masterpiece upon my soul.
He is the conductor
that plays the tune of ecstasy.
He is the poet
that writes sonnets in my skin.
Dips the ink deep within.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 2:08 AM UTC
His hands. His fingers.
He is the painter
that paints a masterpiece upon my soul.
He is the conductor
that plays the tune of ecstasy.
He is the poet
that writes sonnets in my skin.
Dips the ink deep within.
