Her Art

That hand she holds me with.
The need and trust she presses into my shoulder against her cheek.
Continents of red break apart Pangaea across her pale sloping chest.
Breasts, that somehow cool my madness, make me back into a child,
able once again to fully lose myself in comfort.
To not, for at least a moment, question it. Lips
press inside my chest where fools imagine their hearts to be,
she kisses me, whenever she smiles or laughs. Hips fit
like a frame built for just one painting. The subject is life.
And it gets born out from between two legs like these.
Held up with those hands she holds me with.
Treats me like I’m her art. And keeps me
where fools imagine their hearts to be.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4luuu6/sonnet_for_the_concrete/d3qhdau https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4lyrbt/sober_love/d3rmvoh