by Rachelle Howe
There is a subtle succulentness to the beauty that
is you and the moments caught trapped in headlights by
the incline of your jaw, those subtleohsosubtle sentences which
you inkblot flesh and rib, those soliloquies and suppositions which you taint and paint
down my throat and spine and I rose with you in those moments,
the tick-tock-instant wherein your hair fell as I am.
I brush the subtlety of your decadence; your demure moments which
denote the next minute, hour, century and I am at a loss
to lose myself
in the now.
Posted on 06/29/2013
Copyright © 2021 Rachelle Howe