I need to touch the words,
Feel the bark of an old forest
Slip through the cardamom
Of hot mugs over cerulean rains,
My fingers find empty corners
Filled with more promises than
I have known men to keep,
In ink fermented with my years
Spent within and without covers
Leather-bound corsets eager to be
Undressed with difficult patience,
Your bone-white flesh will be
the bookmarks to my smiles
On dank monsoon days;
My dear, I could read you
All night long.
Image Source: Ignat Bednarik
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