Linen Lust

I lied. I’m back again. Though this time, just a quick post of a poem I have written.



It is summer-time.

Our window is ajar, the cloak-curtain

Flowing in wavelets over June-blue currents.

A lulling lonely light unfolds on our legs;

Contiguous, torrid in their tangled state.

With faltering fingers I am tracing

The columbine-coloured rivers

Bringing entity to his lissome limbs

That shape the web of who he is.

Next to myself – an achromic body,

A misbegotten pale shadow of a girl –

He is radiant. Lucent, possessing a vastitude

Of propensity and potential.

And yet he stays with an average ambivert,

Admiring my irregular idiosyncrasies

More readily than any other before.

It is early morning. The star splintered silence

In which we bask is deafening to my desiring ears.

Until – like imploding exquisite glassware –

The words tumble from his rouged lips

And my heart is, for another day, assured.


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