Hands touching the wood of a chair worn by time and sighs, breasts who listen to the chill of a room now empty of words. Eyes closed, the scent of lavender. We are naked and poetry do not know.
[Source: Guen Fiore]
Hands touching the wood of a chair worn by time and sighs, breasts who listen to the chill of a room now empty of words. Eyes closed, the scent of lavender. We are naked and poetry do not know.
[Source: Guen Fiore]