Soft skin and hushed breathing,
perfection right next to me.
I look at you,
with light filering through gauzy white curtains,
as your eyes are half shut and sleepy,
and you dive deeper into your shelter within the sheets.
Cold air hits my legs
as you pull the blanket away from me,
and for a moment I consider tugging it back towards me,
but I could never do that,
because I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable.
Your hair pools on the pillow,
and a few stray strands of hair fall on your forehead.
Soft and velvety, like the way you speak,
smelling of strawberries and apples.
Your eyelashes fan out,
rest on your red cheeks,
and for a moment I'm tempted to kiss you.
I want to trace your collarbones,
feel the skin on your hips running beneath my fingertips,
draw swirls on your stomach,
make patterns on your thighs,
just touch you.
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
