Strain

Sigh

The strands of your hair, resistant to sadness, blessing the seasons

The rising sun on your eyebrows, where its inhabitants dress particles of fire opals

The look of your eyes, a dungeon of swallows, built within lovely lotuses

Your nose of fusion of sea stars, six in the morning and Tropic of Cancer

Your hidden ears, as two girls, in a world of poplar seeds

The sweet loaves of bread of your cheeks like a baby sleeping in her crib

And the eroticism of your mouth, always perched in me

So after kissing you it would not escape

Even the shadow of the slightest sigh



To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.