what slowly keeps growing every day,
other than a desire that never sees the light of day?
perhaps regret: threaded to spine and breath,
softly spoken, yet prickier than death.
the memory of a voice never held,
and still echoing when I pray.
the weight of things we never say
deeply planted, roots crawling in quiet dismay.
the ache that traces those nights
folded between my thighs...
a phantom heat beneath the silk,
curls like smoke, but tastes like milk.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 3:09 AM UTC
what slowly keeps growing every day,
other than a desire that never sees the light of day?
perhaps regret: threaded to spine and breath,
softly spoken, yet prickier than death.
the memory of a voice never held,
and still echoing when I pray.
the weight of things we never say
deeply planted, roots crawling in quiet dismay.
the ache that traces those nights
folded between my thighs...
a phantom heat beneath the silk,
curls like smoke, but tastes like milk.
A peach is soft outside, hard inside, only ripe for a short time. It has also long been a symbol of sensuality and eroticism, particularly in art, literature, and modern pop culture.
Also featured in my zine: https://linktr.ee/amarylliana
