Sketches

by N J Thornton   Oct 2, 2008


Pacified
by crafting pictures
with clouds,
I press my lips
to your cheek bone;

peach moon glow.
Soft as skin; breathing in time.

I close my eyes
and start to mould
naive insecurities into

new shapes.
Each with opaque lines,
and soft curves;

sketches of our future.

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