PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I’m not sure where he came from;

Could he be—

Just a mere figment—

A mirage in the calm of a sand storm?

That figure I long to see— in the distance—

Now in front of me.

It’s imperfect—my love for him.

Obsession as it grows, unhealthy;

As that is what love is—

Impure imperfection.

I long for those lips—

Pressing up against mine—

Knuckles running along my side—

Fingers tangled within my hair—

Eyes intensely burrow into my soul—

My legs wrapping around his torso.

Imperfect comfort is found here,

As love flows through my extremities.

Lying next to me is he—

The man I’ve longed to see.