Bodies move in practiced grace,
Fingers trace, but leave no trace.
No heart beneath the skin we wear,
Just fleeting touch, just vacant stare.
We kiss, but never truly feel,
A moment's hunger, nothing real.
The passion's there, but something's gone,
A fire burned out before the dawn.
No words exchanged, no glances deep,
Just tangled limbs and restless sleep.
It's not the heat that makes us stay,
But silence in the light of day.
You leave, I stay, no strings to tie,
Just two lost souls who never try.
The thrill, the rush, the fleeting high—
A hollow touch, a whispered lie.
YOU ARE READING
She's antiromantique
PoetryShe was heartbroken, instead of the revenge she wrote, she wrote like no one else ever did, every feeling, every sense of discomfort, every thought, was written down, in every book corner, every piece of paper, every napkin, knowing that all of them...
