Free Verse # 367 (firing his sun)

My lips pressed
against her breast,
a sun sinking
into the bosom of the sea.


Wearing dawn’s thin mist
for a veil
she came to him,
her cascading hair
pooling into his lap,
her lips a match
firing his sun.


to the point of ache
I want my poem
to well up inside of her
then spill,
inundating her skin
her eyes
her breath
becoming her soul.


Her violent shudder
as his words pin her,
rivers of ink
furrowing through her skin,
converging in her womb.


For an instant
our eyes met
and that gaze
still furrows into me
carving river after river
of desire and poetry

To R


In the hour before dawn
her skin glows,
becomes radiant,
and that is how you know
the sun will soon rise.


On the outskirts of dawn
she is the voice of silence


Le cendre de ses yeux
à jamais
brule dans mes veines


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