Poem 50

Some moisture on the outer most
Skin of quivering lips curls
Into the rippling petals of a chest
Left heaving in and out
To the subtle rhythm of two hands
Reaching to the others’ ear
And pulling together the pieces to
But with every inward gasp of nostrils
Comes the cowardly chill of a moment ending.
And frozen the features of one face
On another, bend and curl to mold
White teeth softly on the pink flesh
Bite the nerves to life.

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