Infidelity at its finest —
the golden hour of sin.
Breathe him in — his hair,
musky cologne — wait.
Is it worth it? Do I dare
disturb the peace with
roaming fingertips?
Nails sinking into flesh,
its started. Bare all, care none,
sins wasting away down already
clogged drains full of sin.
She says it's necessity. But angels
know she lies through her teeth.
It's not love, it never was, but
a war for independence.
Sin flows, god knows, from valleys
and mountains carved into his
sculptured features.
The room is filled with lemon blossoms,
the only sign of secret infidelity. The smell
of her lavender perfume still lingers in
the air.
YOU ARE READING
Blackberry Thistles ✓
Poetrypoems as delicate as the fruit itself, and as thought-provoking as the sour aftertaste. All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2019 Kate H. > third place winner of the gem-mers awards poetry section 2020
