Longing
Your lips
have already written stories
into my skin.
Your lips
have already written stories
into my skin.
You and I, threaded together on these maps, making homes of where we’ve wandered. Creating our own little world.
He asked me to fill him with my words. So I did. I filled pages. I filled him with my poetry, lines so lyrical and liquid his heart ached.
I run my fingertips over the soft skin between my ribs and hip. The divot, the place where your hands touched.