Still night
Empty cans of distilled night
Heavy incomplete mornings
The burning of the sun against the tongue
He smells like something else
Lover whose warmth comes from my body
Who holds my heat like a promise
In his tears and his kisses
Flesh fails but he bites
The tongue is just as cold as the hand
But the heart is warm
When the head is quiet
YOU ARE READING
A Rococo Lover
PoetryThis is a romance of asymmetry, light colors worn under clean sheets strewn with fresh cut flowers. This is a story of the ways of nature, in fear and in fury.
