Your skin pale from
Winter. Smooth as
Female Nature Herself; as silk,
Yet warm as young
Motherhood, electric
As newlywed love.
I whisper improvised poetics
Between lips that know each
Pore of your perfect person.
I kiss clichés on your cheekbone,
Nouns on your nose.
Bury my face in your sweet
Eternities of seraphim scented hair,
And pray that the poem
I leave on your parchment skin
Remains unread by
Other readers.
You wrap your covers around
Me, unfolding, then folding,
Unfolding, then folding,
Like a slowing butterfly mid-
Butterflight.
And I add a poem to everything,
As always.
A poem the exact size of a
Lady loved, -the sound of
Waves of Wish upon Thank,
And the weight of
The world's only
Actual
Church.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
Your skin pale from
Winter. Smooth as
Female Nature Herself; as silk,
Yet warm as young
Motherhood, electric
As newlywed love.
I whisper improvised poetics
Between lips that know each
Pore of your perfect person.
I kiss clichés on your cheekbone,
Nouns on your nose.
Bury my face in your sweet
Eternities of seraphim scented hair,
And pray that the poem
I leave on your parchment skin
Remains unread by
Other readers.
You wrap your covers around
Me, unfolding, then folding,
Unfolding, then folding,
Like a slowing butterfly mid-
Butterflight.
And I add a poem to everything,
As always.
A poem the exact size of a
Lady loved, -the sound of
Waves of Wish upon Thank,
And the weight of
The world's only
Actual
Church.
