Literature
perfection.
I link my fingers together sometimes,
Just to feel the warmth.
And once I kissed my own hand,
But the lips weren't yours.
The bittersweet smell of your return,
Laments upon my lips,
As we whisper sweet nothings,
And time slowly drips.
Your fingers speak of fire,
While your lips whisper desire,
And all the while I wonder,
How such perfection could ever exist.