Oh, Spanish summer, the air quivers
along the curves of their lips.
The red of the sun burns on their skin,
their pores, they want with their mouths
and touch only with the fingertips.
The closeness of their bodies, untouched,
consecrated in blood, fever, and a metaphor,
with their pitiful young limbs, they write poems
to Aphrodite.
YOU ARE READING
Opus
Poetrya lonely Saturday conversation on the wrong side of the yellow bedroom curtains. ... || Wattys Winner 2018 ||
