the red poem

Your fingertips slide effortlessly across my skin

as if they were made to begin and end there.

Makes me wonder.


Your lips delicate, every warm, familiar place.

Beneath my chin, the tip of my nose,

trace my bottom lip like a sweet red rose.


The innocence of lightness.

My breath tightens.

Like an ocean wave licking the shore.

Sliding over sand.


Slow it down, I’ll kiss your hand.


Tracing the outline of my collarbone,

your arms around my waist are my sense of home.

Your tongue dances a sweet, dripping dance of color,

ecstasy in the thought of slumber.


Your hastened breath reminds me of fingertips sliding across frets.

You taste like coffee,

and afterwards, regret.


A butterfly landing softly on my skin,

it’s wings flutter lightly

finding somewhere new to begin.


My back curves into the absence left by your exhale.


Your mouth meets mine in the middle.

You press your lips hard against mine,

leaving this memory an imprint breathless for time.


Skin on skin isn’t close enough.

Your nails leave marks on my back.

Snuffing out the breath of innocence

and leaving red in its tracks.


Crimson rushing into my thoughts.

Right above your hip bone, your skin goes hot.

Discovering the nape of your neck, like a riverbed.

Your soft sighs, with every touch.


A moment of red.


◄ It Was Almost Love

Why Are We So Delicate? ►


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Fri 2nd Nov 2018 22:12

Red hot ! Well done

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Jon Stainsby

Fri 2nd Nov 2018 21:41


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