In the mad curve
of her scorched hip bones,
he envisions,
a wild stampede,
his touch,
molten hot magma,
another sleepless night,
and the hushed love notes
between them,
milk stained,
warm,
a dandelion ghost,
the rictus smile
of a slow dying cadence
Tonight,
when dry-mouthed vixens
start whispering
a thousand odes
to the lachrymal skies,
she lets him watch
her inked fingers,
wet with drops of sugar lust,
dripping soul upon soul,
onto poisoned sheets.
©itz_frost
TOPIC SUGGESTED BY
@poetic_flo
Tnx a lot
I