FOR Poetry Potluck #48, we are given the topic of "Passionate Nights of Love"...
LAST BREATH
Frangipani under the bed,
wafting promise.
Tendrils of weeping willow
at my window,
when the embrace goes cold.
Dust finally defines my body,
remembering the past nights
when our touches
were made of dew,
as if Scheherazade
lived under my skin.
Am I dead still,
looking for a life,
or born all over again
to find your caress.
Banish tears from my pillow,
let your mouth taste my words.
If only last breaths
could summon up
the craze of passion
instead of fear.
copyright/all rights reserved/ 2011
http://www.minblu.blogspot.com
http://twitter.com/lynxny
