the air laps at the milk of your skin.
the sun christens you gold.
and i pray that your thorns rip me open,
as i swallow your glow whole.
YOU ARE READING
weeds.
Poetrysometimes you need to return to the soil to feel the triumph of what once grew.
fingerprince
the air laps at the milk of your skin.
the sun christens you gold.
and i pray that your thorns rip me open,
as i swallow your glow whole.
