Once in a while, I will post something that is completely unrelated to anything and everything. Below is a poem I wrote today:
Shimmering with sweat,
Eyes shut,
Heavy with the day’s labour,
She nestles her face in the womb of your arm.
You see a faint glow in the small room,
A room too small for this, you think,
And you see it comes from her.
A soft light reflects on her skin,
Not quite sorrel, not quite copper,
Vestiges of a trip to Utah,
A mark where an insect had its fill days ago.
She lies on the floor,
Ethereal.
A round face, quiet with sleep,
Minutes ago was not quite like that.
I rise, but remain close to the ground,
Like the insect who had its fill.
"And if an epitaph be my story, I'd have a short one ready for my own: I had a lover's quarrel with the world." -- Robert Frost
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