She ran from me
in her voyeuristic
tendencies.
Bespectacled in the night,
she shed away her divinity
this girl with a penchant for tragedy.
A dramatic prelude to her kiss
would be the fixations of the poet
to her eyes and lips and skin.
Those which he can only recall
in music--
the slow andante of violin strings
entangled in the coasts
of her body.
Come morning you wake
to the tune of silence.
You could never tell her
those three words she longed to hear.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
She ran from me
in her voyeuristic
tendencies.
Bespectacled in the night,
she shed away her divinity
this girl with a penchant for tragedy.
A dramatic prelude to her kiss
would be the fixations of the poet
to her eyes and lips and skin.
Those which he can only recall
in music--
the slow andante of violin strings
entangled in the coasts
of her body.
Come morning you wake
to the tune of silence.
You could never tell her
those three words she longed to hear.
