your eyes two greenstones
dulse blue lips that bespoke not a lie; I make paper kites
without tails: palmaria palmate, you said
you’re lips making a pocking sound
I will gather your hair into a skein
the taut of my fingers ferrying knots into bows
then I will lay you in the crib of my arms
a child’s smirk on the kip of my face
dulse blue lips that bespoke not a lie; I make paper kites
without tails: palmaria palmate, you said
you’re lips making a pocking sound
I will gather your hair into a skein
the taut of my fingers ferrying knots into bows
then I will lay you in the crib of my arms
a child’s smirk on the kip of my face
aww, that's sweet.
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