Not searching really, more on desiring
A scenery that lovers have or the ones that convince themselves it is love
Their world: vivid, rose colored, soft at the touch it is what I long for but
These hands wish to touch more than skin and more than another soul
I wish that your skin would speak the places it's been hurt and how much it's been bruised or bruised other people
But these ears become blind to your words, and listen intently to their own blood rushing, aware that this was enough the rhythmic pulsing of blood in veins from birth would suffice the life time
So, I am stuck
Between
Loving another fully, or keeping that love for myself
YOU ARE READING
Not Quite, Midnight | poems
Poetry~she sets out to write for herself but casts a line from her ship of lunatics in case there was someone adrift trying to read along.
