Maybe it was the taste of cigarette on his breathe.
The Idea that she was breathing it in too.
The concept of playing with fire.
The inhalation of second hand relief.
Maybe it was the way his hands, stifling veins of hope, embraced all of her pain.
Musky scents so foreign but to familiar.
Like a lost thought. A dream.
Maybe it was all her dreams and prayers being placed into one body.
His laugh a song she never quite heard the lyrics of.
His smile, that lit sparks in her.
His voice with all it's emotions stirring hers in any direction.
A compass to the north.
Maybe it was the way he managed to make her bend and bow in pleasure.
Make her Want in the most intimate of ways.
Make her darkest parts feel safe to play.
Maybe it was that she couldn't say she loved him, although she truly cared.
Maybe he was more than just that word, maybe he was hers.
YOU ARE READING
Salvaged Soul
Poetry"The mind is a beautiful servant but a dangerous master" It said "so i must then let it serve my soul" I whispered A salvaged soul is not new, it is old. It has lost and is still losing but is no longer who it was when it first broke. To be one step...
