For the contemplation of Poets

It burns the tongue, tapping into the senses
ever so slightly
while I lie under the sheets contemplating nature—
there is poetry in dirt,
in salt existing on the wind,
in grayness of the morning and in red peppers.

His lips,
the centre point of all sweetness trace what is mine
and what isn’t,
and I wonder if the moon competes with the sun
just like I compete with him?
Not even milk soothes the sensation that pierces—
the sky in turn sings a little louder.

As subtlest of kisses launched from fingers,
if you asked me why I prefer fruit that hurts
I wouldn’t be able to answer—
I am half conscious,
my thoughts straying to him in deep mauve
of twilight;
it burns the tongue, yes
but wouldn’t you rather feel this way
than have a feeling of dust
rise in your throat?
Fealty,
is what my soul bleeds when one isn’t looking.

 

Photo credits: Antonio Mora’s Surreal Portraits, Pinterest

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United