October
Morning quietly stands
On the silver sill,
Black heels puncturing the view,
A faceless, coiffed character
Turning its dim limbs
Into deliberatly chosen landscapes,
Eyes unraveled into the puddle
Of dripping crimson down the edges.
Her in bloom has never been riper
Under the weight of the light air
Smelling of fruity sweat
And sweet commotion behind the skin.
Close the window open
And let me crawl inside her.
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