I know I won’t gain a thing from this but...
Your fragrance was that of an ephemeral mist
and so one taste
won’t ever be enough
One touch would always be miles away from satisfaction
I dig my own grave, as I let you in,
let you envelope me
With those cunning arms
I know I might be exaggerating things
as poems would always end up with these rhetorics
And so I long for you
Like rain amidst the dunes of Sahara
Or a waltz with the northern Aurora
|12:38|July 10, 2016|
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