My lips remember the tender plane of your skin,
The slow traverse and turning.
From delicate eyelids, down across your nose to the meadow of freckles, to cheeks flush and lip-stained.
A gentle pressing at the corners of your mouth before the red and raw taking; the sweet and wanting.
May these phantom kisses haunt you.
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 11:13 AM UTC
My lips remember the tender plane of your skin,
The slow traverse and turning.
From delicate eyelids, down across your nose to the meadow of freckles, to cheeks flush and lip-stained.
A gentle pressing at the corners of your mouth before the red and raw taking; the sweet and wanting.
May these phantom kisses haunt you.
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