Chest to chest.
Our hearts whispered what could not be said out loud.
As the shallow hills and valleys of our ribs fit like jigsaws.
Your scalding breath burned the pulsating flesh beneath my skin.
And taunted my lungs that didn't dare give me air.
For fear that any miniscule shift would snap our fragile seam.
YOU ARE READING
Tacenda
Poetrytacenda (n.) things better left unsaid; matters to be passed over in silence
