She was a melody, a flute
She was the voice of skylarks at the breaking point
close to spring.
Her hands were doors to other doors
for something more.
Her tresses warm
when I held her in my arms.
We met with night,
We met with moon a sickle,
when it all felt right.
She unfolded, bloomed and I fell
had such tender skin (like death)
I must have snored
cause when I woke, with just her scent
pressed like flowers in a book.
I realized I could have dreamt.
Today it’s open link at dVerse Grace is hosting. Come with any poem and join us when we open at 9 PM CET.
January 12, 2017