Could time be the thief?
Or do we hold time captive,
filling it with life?
About the Creator
Sandra Matos
I write so that people will remember me. I make art for the same reason. I had a mother that I never knew. Who she was, how she smelled, or what she valued. I don't want anyone to wonder who I was.
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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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