Your first taste
made the aftertaste
bittersweet.
On your hands,
the gleam of a silver tray.
On your lips,
red thread,
tied to my lips.
Promises exchanged in dark corners,
your shadow consoling mine.
Grey fields bloomed in colors bold.
In time, the thread grew taut,
cut by the blade in your hand.
A love once cherished,
now perished in fading colors.
Only a lingering taste remains.
Bittersweet.

I miss you sadly and so much!
And even if I just don’t know you,
Or maybe I won’t nay find you
And in no case and never lose you.

I miss the words. I miss so much
The words, that never will be spoken,
The dreams, that knotted not on me.
They’ll be fulfilled not us, but someone.

I miss the hands. I miss so much!
They would be able to hug sweetly.
I miss the hair, careless a bit,
And lips… Yes, lips! I miss them really!

I miss their touching, hot and sultry,
Which can just never been delivered.
But even as I never know you,
I’ll love you truly with a quiver.

The air's too dry,
my lips chapped,
but no ordinary balm will do.

Why don't you wear it first,
let it melt into your warmth,
then let me steal it back,

until the taste of your lips
becomes my only addiction.

Her lips often leave a mark
       on my cheeks, or in the shoulders
       of my white-clean-shirt,
       and I like it, dearly much..

       but could I have it
       in my lips instead?...



       -ManInBlack

Lips together, pressed,
as if you were the one dead,
"Wake up"-your only prayer,
but death doesn't care.
Now you can only choke,
on words you never spoke.

I want to look into your gentle eyes
And drown in them for days and nights at all!
I miss your eyes, where spring lies close.
I'm sad for them, I'm melancholy whole.

My body's darted with a shiver all at once,
When I begin to think of your strong hands.
I know, you'll never come again, my loving
And I will have only my deepest sense.

I miss your chiselled and your noble profile,
Your captivating and so sensual lips.
I wish I could hand back again even on one day
Your blessed soft voice, just though in my sleeps.

These moving feet always stay hungry
For the steps on finding perfect dreams
Pestering about love again – it really bugs me.
How it usually goes for us, in this love story
Asking myself, “would you really tell me his story,”
Quietly knowing, “you two still share some history?”

Yes, your eyes are both the windows to your soul —
But their curtains are occasionally & forcefully closed
The story of every man, wanting to find that treasure,
Of their favourite girl's heart; marking it with an X,
And they all quietly hope, to closely hear her say,
"Hey, you're so much better than my ex.”
Asking myself, “what love of man, is surely king,”
Cause being that it's all ruled from a wicked heart –
It can take a week to fall in love, but it unfortunately
Takes a lot of us weeks to fully heal from a broken heart.

Love can become so foreign to someone,
Unfamiliar to the tastes of a good French kiss
"What's your love language," we first have to ask;
Body language can differ from what comes out of your lips.
As even a betrayer knows when to give the right kiss…

I like your deep brown eyes
Your beautiful voice and genuine smile
You've got more pros than cons
I'm kissing your lips, the vertical ones