I was meant to write about the butterflies
brought on by your smiles;
the graceful sway of your hips,
and the witchcraft in your lips.
At the slightest of touch, I became a poet.
But it was the calm before your raging storms.
My love, you were my poetry;
my tragedy.
***
YOU ARE READING
Moonlit
PoetryThese are thoughts born under the moon's glow; when sheep has run out, and sleep's a child playing hide and seek with the mind. Some moonlit verses from a pillow-hugging girl. *PTY | 20 [03.08.17]
