When He Fries My Heart

On a queue, I wonder if else drum the circulation

I could still love his prickling beard

Now the lane connects closer to the flames

Hence, the peak of my feet nail trips on him

He is on the pools of snow, while I shall bribe the sun

His smile butter me up on an oil

It taste numb yet too complete

It’s his hand stirring the selfless drools

I thought I’m breathing in soils of his arms

How does that ruins of skeleton trap carelessness?

I wished If I had disowned frying pan, oil and that flame.

©aleashaa2018

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5 thoughts on “When He Fries My Heart

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