"coldsheets" poems
I like to watch the smoke curl.
Pour.
Escape.
Tumble.
Out of your perfect mouth.
I like to hear the tempo.
Pound.
Vibrate.
Ignite.
Lose eachother in this perfect beat.
I like the way coldsheets feel on bare bodies.
Smooth.
Innocent.
Perfection.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC