small crimes

by
in love, if you're not losing your mind,
it means you waste your time, isn't it?

the breast of the muses is scorching…
lips bit one other for so much unkissed

the small crimes of longing are smiling,
laying on my bed, listening to bedding

naturally, who's getting mood to write
when all body is so as trapped in love

poetic audience

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come... — catch out my poetry's nipples with the island lips of yours ‧ suck out of it... the rain of my emotions announced in the forecast of love ‧ any dose will transfer in you the energy from the nest of my stars ‧ the molecular activity of my atmosphere is gonna erect your hemisphere ‧ our happiness from the present of now will immortalize any picture falling down  ‧ the vapors of our passion will sign with pseudo name, — [end of the world]
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an unstoppable artistically silhouette [it's mine, not yours] a frisson into body blues concealed [that's yours, not mine] dream-makers are drawing the mood [eagerness has charm] any thought into my dreamt dreams [prove it to be what I need now] loving you, loving me is not fantasy, [even if all about it looks so alike]
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