Nights of Missing You
It's eight and I am missing your touch:
its delicate feeling against my skin
or its free ticket to heaven perhaps
the moment it reached my sensitivity
It's nine and I am missing your lips:
my kind of cocaine and ecstacy
or its taste like champagne or beer
as I get lost in your eyes in me
It's ten and I am missing your voice
its rhythm in the middle of our nights;
the sound it makes when you moan
turning me on in such romantic fight
It's evening and I badly miss all of you again
but you're now in the bed of someone else
YOU ARE READING
Metaphors Beneath the Riptides
Poetry"Your I-love-you was like a scribble in a sand- At first it was there then next it was not" Metaphors beneath the Riptides An Anthology By Eos Pleuvoir 2020 Cover Made with Canva
