beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, Uncategorized, women

touch leaves marks

It’s in the breath

Thickened air

Each one lends weight

To the last

Carved over being grown

And all you need do

Is impress me as to

Whether I give the gift

Of myself to you

Laugh, call me arrogant

But no woman wants a lovable loser,

Sure, settle but you’ve done that,

And although I am not tuxedo and roses,

I am what nightmares run from,

You can feel small

Resting against me

My irrational self-confidence,

Isn’t so irrational

When my touch

Brings a small whimper to

The cupids bow of your lips

And I’m not insecure,

Because that implies

I’m not good enough,

And I am,

Not perfection because that’s dull and impossible,

You’d think I was some monster wearing a golden mask,

Rather than a beast who tried being a Prince,

And realised he could still be a beast

Without stockings or powdered wigs,

My touch leaves marks,

But they’re sigils,

Brands of intention which glow

When you see my face

Hear my voice

Say

My

Name.

Advertisements
Standard

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s