*Words swirl through parting crimson.
Each syllable reflects on
the warm surface as it passes.
Some are almost drawn back
by the delicate wisp of breath.
Others are bitten off
stalled by a thought,
a look...
that look!
A tooth gripping soft red.
Released, the cherry
lips fall back in place.
Another butterfly flees my chest.*
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC
*Words swirl through parting crimson.
Each syllable reflects on
the warm surface as it passes.
Some are almost drawn back
by the delicate wisp of breath.
Others are bitten off
stalled by a thought,
a look...
that look!
A tooth gripping soft red.
Released, the cherry
lips fall back in place.
Another butterfly flees my chest.*
