What he loves

He loves my faceThe shape of Cupid’s bow,The curve of hazel,Spotted scars sparse,Extol my artistry, he does. He loves my curves,My thick mass,The pulse beneath bustMy weight, my baseThe sway of shark bite dress. He loves my languageaberration of normal pillow talk,Nibbles on his skin, sure,Quick heavy breaths and sniffing,Silly, immature play. He loves myContinue reading “What he loves”

My Heart

My heart is but a fishing bobber:Pallid and crimson, split in color.When casted from pole, to sea, or lakeor pond, perhaps. Floating uneasy atop the drift, To billow in ripple; bobbing over forgotten wakes. To reel it in would be a lost causeBecause one would save a thing if it were drowningBut for what? For what?To saveContinue reading “My Heart”