Her eyes never seem to
remain the same. Today,
they are golden wheat.
Melted caramel pooled
into huge indents, one
perfect black
iris
left to float in a sea of
color. They betray little.
She resides in her own
land. Do I subsist within?
Surely not in the way
she is branded into
mine.
Heterosexuality keeps
her from opening her
eyes to the lipstick-stained
half of the population, the
long-lashed
kohl-rimmed sets of eyes
that make my heart race.
She is innocent to my
sinful thoughts, how
my tongue tingles
with desire to tango
with hers. Completely
unaware
of how I wish to touch
her porclain skin, run
my fingers through her
coal-black strands, a
waterfall of perfectly
trimmed and dutifully
cared for beauty. I
drink
in her voice, adorable
in it's (occasional)
stumble, a slight accent
born in Venezuela
and prone to appear
out of nowhere. I am
not in love, but I do
l u s t
for her, a monster
entirely foreign to
me. A territory left
unexplored. My lips
tremble with desire
to nibble on every
nook and crevice
hidden
by a minuscule layer
of cloth, a thin veil
of lipstick. However,
my cravings stretch
far beyond such
shallow desires,
overshadowed
by the magnetism
of what lurks
beneath her
skin. .
YOU ARE READING
The Angel, The Devil, And All That Lies In Between
PoetryShe came into my life and left me breathless- she is not fictional. She is real. Living, breathing, flesh-and-blood proof that life can get better; someone forever out of my reach, but a constant muse and inspiration. These poems are all a dedicatio...
