There are things pressed against my lips that I cannot say.
I want to feel them in soft blocks of color.
They are large brushstrokes of warmed purple.
They would be as deep and multifacetted as a Rothokov
and only I would be able to see the perfect green in them.
YOU ARE READING
Approaching Zero
PoetryLove poems that are creepy because sometimes love is scary and bad for you.