You tell me you're no artist
then leave sweeping strokes of fire down my skin
brushing kisses across my body
filling your canvas.
Crooning softly in my ear you envelop me
with sounds meant for no one else.
Your talented, methodical fingers plucking
just the right chords that make me thrum to life.
You tell me you're no artist,
but baby, you and me?
This. Is art.
About the Creator
Kiersten Fox
Constantly searching for new ways to challenge myself and develop new writing skills. I mainly write poetry, but also enjoy summarizing psychological journal articles. Thank you for exploring my work!
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More stories from Kiersten Fox and writers in Poets and other communities.
Stuck in Place
Amy whistled as she walked through her front yard, looking for any sticks she could pick up and throw into the pile she and her brother were making. They had a big windstorm recently; as such, all the trees in their yard had suffered some damage in some loss of sticks. Or perhaps losing those sticks was a good thing since their trees probably needed to be pruned anyway. Amy wasn't sure.
By Rebecca Patton7 days ago in Fiction
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