It was the most perfect kiss I've ever experienced.
I can barely find the words to describe it.
Her lips.
Her skin was so soft and white and beautiful.
Her lips were luscious and tender and moist.
She was beautiful.
In that moment, she was the most beautiful, most amazing, most spectacular, most perfect woman. Ever.
Every time I try to remember, it brings me such joy.
Such peace.
God. I love her.
The memory of her.
That kiss.
The way her lips gently caressed my lips.
How her tongue pressed softly against mine.
Such joy.
Such peace.
Such happiness.
Such sorrow to think that it won't ever happen again.
The touch of pale, soft skin under my fingertips, to set my nerves aflame.
To caress her cheek once more would be enough to be the cure of this terrible ache.
The passion. The fire.
Her fire.
Why do I love so much the memory and despise so much the remembrance of it?
Parting is not sweet, but sorrow.
If someone's hope, I could but borrow.
For hope has all but left me dead.
And devils feast on what angels dread.
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3 comments:
What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret code? No! Poems, no less! Poems, everybody!
The laddie reckons himself a poet!
Nice one, man. I envy your ability to feel passion in such innocence. I was always too screwed up to see and feel the beauty in a moment like that.
Thanks man.
I think this might be the most honest thing I've ever written.
Makes me wanna cry like a little girl.
That read like a Frank Miller scene to me, but I'm a comic geek. Go figure. Nice piece man.
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