It is my illness: to find heaven in you.
Each time you move by my side I find
myself feeling electricity accrue,
my fingers wishing to coil, enshrined
in a loving eternal prayer. Breaths
leave your lips, condensation incites quick
steps, eclipsing the patterns of thought left
to lovingly crumble in your wake. Trick-
-les of fire burn each time you pause to think,
or rhetort, or shift your tongue, I am caught
between the need to stay true to our brink,
or to fall into you; lost forever. Naught
seems comparable to your divine form,
and left am I living a life left shorn.
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC
It is my illness: to find heaven in you.
Each time you move by my side I find
myself feeling electricity accrue,
my fingers wishing to coil, enshrined
in a loving eternal prayer. Breaths
leave your lips, condensation incites quick
steps, eclipsing the patterns of thought left
to lovingly crumble in your wake. Trick-
-les of fire burn each time you pause to think,
or rhetort, or shift your tongue, I am caught
between the need to stay true to our brink,
or to fall into you; lost forever. Naught
seems comparable to your divine form,
and left am I living a life left shorn.