12:26 a.m.
monday morn —
bedroom parlour
***
"stop that."
"stop what?"
"stop invading my
privacy."
when silence bit
us with his venom,
i scoured his features.
from the freckles that
were planted in his
face, the alluring
shade of gold
that painted his
skin.
to his eyes.
the brown orbs
that sparkled
light and dreams.
dreams that he
could give if he
wished to — it's as
if it was bestowed
by the lover of the
moon himself.
the sun.
he is the child of sun.
***
YOU ARE READING
Our Vintage Dance on the Phonograph
Poezja"you and - me, we traversed at the eve of the colossal pages of our bedroom balcony." - excerpt there is no other dancing partner i would dance with other than you, my sun. you bring me to places that are wiped out of history - to the gardens of rui...
