Horse Hair Skier

Your nails
still refuse
to drag along
my skin.

Snow leopard.

You…

Your nails
retracted,
tongue curled, folded.

Padding away
into a mountains
dark crevices.

Where I,
kokburu player,
goat tosser extraordinaire,
mad skier across Tuvan skies,
lasso in hand and elk before me…
am still not allowed
to pursue.

My rope whipping out,
unanswered,
quivering,
inept.

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About Martin

I'm just... filling time.
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Creativity, Love, Lovers, Poem, poetry, Writing and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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