we sit in the dark,
the whispers of our neighbors
mingling with the shadows.
your hand is cool and soothing,
mine is sticky with sweat;
we run feather-light fingers
up and down each others' arms.
YOU ARE READING
labyrinthine → poetry
Poetry"i think you were made to talk to the stars. (i think the stars were made to listen to you)" -m.v.
