Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Ooh, Matron!

Weak under warm blankets,

enjoying the magic of my fingers,

softly stroking your hair,

lips pressed against your volcanic temple,

as I worship my wounded warrior.

I hold you close,

hearts in chaotic sync,

I breathe in time with your sleeping symphony,

Mary Seacole of the twenty first century,

silently speaking your name,

as if it were a healing spell.

I kiss your cheek,

and you pull me closer,

and closer.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s