In the symphony of his touch, a delicate crescendo,
His fingertips, a sonnet, igniting passions untold.
Yet, in the aftermath, a lingering ache persists,
A craving unsated, as his lips depart, desiring more than exists.
His touch, a poetic dance upon my soul,
Each brush, a verse in a love story untold.
Yet, with every departure, an echo of yearning,
His lips, a poetic promise, my body still burning.
In the delicate ballet of desire, I find my plea,
For his touch, a masterpiece, yet incomplete in its decree.
As his fingertips trace ephemeral poetry on my skin,
His lips, a tantalizing whisper, leave my body thirsting within.
A canvas painted with the strokes of longing,
His touch, a painter's brush, every sensation belonging.
But as his lips depart, a hunger persists,
A poetic hunger, a yearning that my body insists.
YOU ARE READING
UNSTABLE
Poetryquotes and poems even short stories. To have an open mind and different view of life. some are rewritten in simple English
