The story was already written.
Two glasses of wine.
Two glasses of wine. And they raised them like the moon rose that night.
Two lovers searching in the other what they haven't found in themselves.
Two imperfect beings searching for perfection.
Two fallen angels trying to escape the hell they have been slaved because they've chose to.
Two glasses of wine. And they raised them like the wine rose them, then threw them in bed. Like his hand rose, going up her thigh; path to what's desire. Raises the amount of scratches and bites, and kisses and moans. Their souls walking on air, floating in the forbidden sex.
But the story was already written.
It's already another day.
One glass of wine.
YOU ARE READING
Beloved, my John
PoésieWe were gods in those days. Now we are more than that. [First time publishing my pieces in english. Any feedback would be great!]
