Soft light through linen curtains
ferns hanging from the windows
Swimming in an ocean of patchwork,
red quilts and tattered sheets,
My hands draped around your hips,
lips buried in the sweet mess of your hair,
chest pressed
Into the curve of your spine,
we wear each other so well.
I can't remember. ever,
Being more comfortable
with anyone,
or myself,
Or. So enlightened.
we are the exception to the rules of convention,
ive nicknamed you
paradox. artist.
your toes paint circles on my shins,
as I brush, stroke
your inner thighs
Andrew Tipton
Andrew Tipton
