I cannot be infinite if
these stubborn, mindless fingertips
ache with wanting to
reach out for you-
to touch your warm skin and
trace the veins swimming under,
to draw my finger pads across
the valleys below your eyelids
and trail the mountains ridges
of your cheekbones,
to skim the redness of your lips
and to feel that birdcage embrace,
a space I curiously linger-
but, you are a beginning
and such, there is an end and darling
I have only ever survived by
twisting within myself,
attempting to guard my heart
against it all but
this hand still reaches out for you,
no longer caring that one day
it might reach out expecting warmth
but finding only a delicate absence;
ampersand;
you break me
YOU ARE READING
Roses, Cherry Vodka & Her Perfume
ŞiirA collection of (almost) love poetry inspired by my beautiful and exotic princess of a muse. (Please please please read and leave comments, I need some critics because I wanna give this to her as a present)
