He was a fire so bright.
And it burnt me.
From the inside out.
His scars were my favourite
Imperfections.
His smile was my sunshine,
Not the one thay pricks your eyes. But the one that soothes you.
His hair. My fingers ached for them. To run through.
To pull.
His hands. Were craved for by my soul.
His fingers. On me. In me.
Were the most sculptorous things i had ever seen, felt.
His mind. Was my favourite place to visit. Everytime.
His lips. I'd always wanted to drain them out.
Him.
He wasn't just my love.
He wasn't just my life.
He was me.
YOU ARE READING
Smoke.
PoetryAll our lives we live in an illusion. The past. The present. The future. The moments. The feelings. The love. The dreams. The desires. The pleasure. Is nothing more. Than just smoke. Existent. But non existent.
