Papermache'
My armor is diminished,
to nothing more than a paned glass,
too easily shattered.
My will, the only barrier.
The kisses closed, I dream open.
The delicate flavor of virgin musk,
screaming out at me.
My heart a puddle.
Her every glance,
a stone birthing a new score of ringlets of anguish,
in my mind.
That runs in panic with desire.
To hold her tenderly, deeply and passionately.
As a woman; to love her fully,
The same as I would hold her hand,
and she mine.
Fingers wholly interlocked.
Loving touches that break my soul.
And I have to
BELIEVE
I still have one.
Because it soars at night when it sneaks away from me.
It lifts her gently in its love; it cradles her in it's infinity.
It shares its cell.
With those ringlets of anguish she formed in me,
she gave them to me.
She gave them life,
and watched non-sensically as they rippled
across my flesh.
Leaving it rich in its own signifigance,
filling my mind with impossibilities,
and gluing to my soul
like papermache'
Copyright © April Wilson | Year Posted 2012
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