A darker shade of purple.
That's you,
But.
Not like a bruise-
outlasting the pain.
More,
vivid.
Softer.
Still,
like the sky,
after a storm.
Once the adrenaline has tired.
And the wind has hushed into a
whisper.
of nothings.
Sweet.
Then.
and only then could I,
gather courage from the sodden earth.
And hold you in it.
Like a caterpillar inside a cocoon.
Softly.
encased in a web,
of silk.
For a moment.
A beautiful transient moment.
And then I would set you free
Like a butterfly.
The empress of your -
own
Wings.
About the Creator
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His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress6 days ago in Poets
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