In the end you smell like the milk and honey of an unperturbed hideout,
and your touch tells me that you think of me as ivories,
touching me with the same humanness of both dusk and pianos.
To kiss you is to free the lakes of their fires.
To hold you is to escape a self-sabotaging behavior sextillion times more.
To love you is to rub my butterflies into clitoral pleasure.
Oh,
pray my wings look just how I envision you, sopping wet in all my prismal thinking.
YOU ARE READING
PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY
PoetryYour voice is the paint I take to the sky, splattering it all over, so they can all know you're nigh.
