Submitted Date 05/06/2022

The gentle touch of fingertips
On the outside of my arm
As the sun crawls over the windowsill
Plasmatic molasses
Lighting our togetherness
In the chilled predawn of possibility
That lovers waste on pleasures

Her whispers invade, auditory amphibious
Soldiers; this beach is mine
They cry, in porcelain fragility
But although she is like the daisy
Her petals are razors, whetted by trial
But they are petals still

I miss the curve of her ankle
Erotic geometry
Eyes of Tenerife, ethereal
Spun gold threads hang;
A crown.


Brady S BowenI like pretty words.


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