you are on the tip of my tongue, a taste of flame more than skin deep, dancing in my eyes while my breath hangs on moonbeams
you are on the tip of my tongue, a taste of flame more than skin deep, dancing in my eyes while my breath  hangs on moonbeams stories
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frerejacques
frerejacques Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   2 years ago

you are on the tip of my tongue, a taste of flame more than skin deep, dancing in my eyes while my breath hangs on moonbeams

golden palms curl and close in the loose comb of my hair, fingers trace musings wrapping and unwrapping against the fineness of purpose

rhythm of saints is measured by the supple rise and fall of a pulsed flesh arcing upwards in liquid waves stretching to a red horizon that refuses the night

a sun blossoms, then another, a galaxy born that swirls without thought, cratering time, consuming light-years in the rush of your breath

that surges, like a wind from heaven

hangs on moonbeams

golden palms curl and close

in the loose comb of my hair,

fingers trace musings

wrapping and unwrapping

against the fineness of purpose

rhythm of saints

is measured by the supple

rise and fall of a pulsed flesh

arcing upwards in liquid waves

stretching to a red horizon

that refuses the night

a sun blossoms,

then another, a galaxy born

that swirls without thought,

cratering time,

consuming light-years in the rush

of your breath

that surges,

like a wind from heaven

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