I can not see past
your wanton angels
wishing nothing more
than to touch their faces.
Should I dissolve
pour me as liquid
slowly swirling
in a blushing basin
as we cling on sheets.
Steamy fingertips glide
to find tender spots,
dew that weeps
in ripened heated drips.
A lost hummingbird
on borrowed wings,
I only sing when you're
closer than skin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem