You.
Pretty boy and his tongue is a stone.
Clever fingers work rough stone, soft silk.
Your insistent plucking sees the night wane to dawn, draws the beauty from the dross.
I think of you, often, working, alone. I think of you sighing over tiny anvils, squinting at needles. I envy your toil. To be beauty and make beauty seems, to me, an unparalelled
Clever fingers work rough stone, soft silk.
Your insistent plucking sees the night wane to dawn, draws the beauty from the dross.
I think of you, often, working, alone. I think of you sighing over tiny anvils, squinting at needles. I envy your toil. To be beauty and make beauty seems, to me, an unparalelled
Comments 4
This is a cool piece of writing, too.
Glad to see you back.
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And in a romantic mood too... What gives? ;-p
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