He strokes with regret.
In his hands—
A cunning guilt
of return.
I caress that neck of his.
It's instinctive.
My ears are gagged with swabs
of deep oxblood.
Your name
furrowed the freckled horizon
of my hip.
YOU ARE READING
Morning Songs
PoetryMorning songs is a sweet and tragic collection created in a time of unfurling need. A balance between tenderness and the greed of love. Less speaking, and more taking jabs at forcing you to question how much goodness you hold. From syrupy memories...
