His tamed beard swept the back of my neck.
Each stroke felt like cotton strides against my soul my eyes darted,
as if to penetrate a hole in the wall
my temperature boiling only because he craves the unknown
the desire to explore and extract glistening chunks
of my love, I fold in his touch and strong hold
he wraps hugs like heresy kisses and his lips match his sweetness
I do not want to journey him, I do not have strength, to embrace his hand as if;
It’s the goal of a lifeline.
I do not I wonder why butterflies flutter,
or why people follow their heart
or why the butterflies seem to have celebrations at your core?
The butterflies, life span is short lived, this elated, euphoric, paradise, fantasy
of “love” is farfetched to a realistic materialization
I do not, he is stretching for knowledge buried between my ribcage.
He is caressing the open sores and battle scares and desiring to be a nurse. He is, withstanding, my anger, my bitter sweetness, and out right meanness….
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