Languid like the library cat that sleeps among the stacks
Or the warmth in the static behind a well-worn record,
Soft like the waves that lap at the lakeshore
And the way you kiss your way up my spine
With a bone-deep reverence I will never deserve,
Muted like the world after the first heavy snowfall of winter,
The thin smile offered after a bout of cold sleepless nights,
How your name sounds on my tongue
And the press of my hand to your heart,
Heat that licks beneath your skin in the dark,
The moment I realized home was never a place,
That this fondness encompasses more than just us, here,
The lives we've lived, the people we've been,
For you, I have always felt in such profound subtleties.
YOU ARE READING
Le Cygne
PoetryThe words of a dying swan. They vary greatly in length and content and I am extremely infrequent but I'm moving at my own pace and trying to get things I find important out of my system. Bear with me and in time I'll bare my soul to you.
