These words belong to you,
Milk sweet.
Whispers.
Little presents.
Fingers on salted skin.
I want them to drip from my lips
To yours.
Instead they stay locked
Behind my eyes,
Beneath my skin,
Crawling on my bitten tongue.
Confessions swarm
Inside my chest,
Buzzing like carrion flies
Feeding on the silence.
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Author:
N. Christine (
Offline) - Published: July 27th, 2026 20:00
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 20
- Users favorite of this poem: Carlos Alberto BUSTILLOS, Paul Bell
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Comments2
A poem of passion well done
When they're out of reach, they're out of reach.
Will things change, who knows.
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