Swervant grass patches, unkempt from shoeing stomps.
Our heads lay on those moist spots of dew'd blades;
scratched them in paranoia of ants or bugs
rustling through thickets upon thickets of dull black hair,
mine to hers oddly was a dispondent comparison
hardly with any merit i would comb through
waiting to find a sore or scab to rub or pick,
never did i find a wound on her scalp
but all the better for she never found one on mine.
I held close her beating breasts,
on her I felt perkier nipples and undulating lungs,
lifting and breaking, back and forth.
In a field, I thought and more often than not,
pretended our time together wasn't ours
but of a different woman's.
In those escaping pregnant thoughts,
I gave attrition to such less than I am,
her hands were not hers,
her heart was not hers,
her lips were not hers
and in my closed eyes
these false claims were true,
and in such beautiful lidded eyes,
i wished for so long
in those handing moments
that I was born blind.
wow. incredible read, almost paralyzing right from the start. I cant find any contructive criticism but I really dont think you should change anything. so bump bump, deserves more reads.
Outside the side box that's outside your sky box.