Obsidian


Songbirds lying in the snow,
memories of melodies hanging in the trees-
they sound how feathers feel.
Ice on bare skin,
thighs not touching
barely brushing
like willow tree limbs.
Fingers on fingers rush,
turning water into wine
and back again,
drinking in the taste of
need.
You look into my eyes
and see the murky bottom
of the bottle,
and you kiss my whiskey mouth.
You inhale me
until your lungs are full of rain,
and you cough diamonds into your palm
that you take from me,
sweet obsidian.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem