masterpei

I want to crawl
across your skin,
one pore
at a time.

grasping
those silken hairs
that so elegantly
caress you,

and become
one of
them.

well, yeah

cherokeeghostwriter:

Oh hell yes.

sunday under the covers

(Source: https://www.youtube.com/)

warm winds blow
from Southern climes
to seek a brand new start

bringing songs
that had no rhymes
until they touched your heart

now, they are locked away
in the constructs of time
deep within
forbidden places
somewhere in my mind

I still feel their flutterings
I know the peace
that they can bring
the joy that they embrace
when ere they hear
you sing

maybe,
on the weekends,
the ones where I’m alone.
where the sound of a mote
hitting the floor
echos as if a stone.

where the silence roars it’s presence
as a ringing in my ears,
filling my head with fire
as I’m counting off the years

that seem to drop as petals
off flowers never sent,
missing minutes, missing hours,
I wonder where they went.

were you supposed to fill them
in another time and space?
for they remain unfilled,
though I hold out
just in case.

I recall
the colour of morning
as scented wisps of breeze
that wrapped around my body
then brought me to my knees

I recall
the colour of morning
as something undefined
linens damp with us
our bodies then entwined

I recall
how it felt
to be kissed

as you lay
upon me
like the morning mist

diaphanous,
ephemeral,
fragile

as morning light
illuminated
the beauty of your smile

I recall
the colour of morning
in misty shades of blue
a taste of melancholy
reminding me of you

My mother told me that the first time she read Portnoy’s Complaint she wept and, at the time, I couldn’t understand why. It’s not a sad novel. But, of course, as I got older I understood. One cries not because it is sad but because it is true, and no matter how funny he is, reading Roth always leaves one a little devastated.

Emma Brockes, a novelist and Guardian columnist