It's her hair all tangled up in the morning sun, barely awake. It's her nails on a lazy afternoon, wet from lacquer. It's lipstick stains on your favorite shirt in the evenings, afternoons, and surprising mornings. It's passion in your hearts, burning coals, and sweaty palms on your skin. Hands unsteady and lips begging in anticipation, waiting for the climax. An intimate moment, stolen by bloody memories, car crashes, red lights, and stop signs unnoticed. It is eyes, bloodshot, and barely sleeping for days. It's stained wrists and broken hearts on St. Valentine's Day.
YOU ARE READING
Trinkets
PoetryIf you want to read without the commitment, this is the perfect book for you. You can open it and read a few excerpts once in a while, or you can read it in one go. The entries here have various themes which may confuse readers as it confused the wr...
