Angelica,
blooming in the twilight.
The one who left my neck a pleasant purple,
my thighs littered with bruising bites.
Angelica,
shining gold under the sunlight.
Her voice left my wounds appeased and supple,
her music healing my sunrise.
Braiding hair upon a tower, runs her hands along my spine.
Her touch sings praises. Like a flower, I shall bloom under her hands.
Angelica, you are magnificent, please be aware of the fact.
The songs we sang upon cold stairwells were a kindness to my heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment