Your lips—
my shelter
when storms gather in the marrow,
the place where passion lands
when it has nowhere else
to fall.
I do not know
where longing goes
when turned away—
only that it trembles
through the hollow of my chest,
cracking
like an unspoken word
beneath dry light.
These lips,
without your fire,
are not soft,
not shaped to sing—
they curl like a vine
without a wall to climb.
Your lips—
like wild apples:
small, scarred,
sweetened by wind and sun.
No store-bought beauty,
no polished perfection—
just a holiness
in every imperfect bite.
Real beauty
isn’t symmetry—
it’s meaning.
She wears no mask,
no sculpted face—
her truth is taste,
not packaging.
