Poetry

There is nothing called perfect, but if there is one then dying between your arms would be perfect.
There isn't been enough words or enough emotions or enough definitions to understand poetry, but if there is to feel one then dying in between your legs would be poetry. 


And all the time I thought it was the heartbeat that makes one feel alive. Less did i know the heat of a person can bring you back to life, until i touched your skin. 

You smell like wildflowers freshly out of the forest, You taste like sweet nectar right out of the Heather. 
You touch like soft feather just out of the dandelion, 
You love like a man, a rare and gentle thing alive. 

And all the time I thought it was the heartbeat that makes one feel alive He touched me with his bare skin only to make me realise the heat of a person can bring me back to life too.

Mornings are for sunshine, mornings are of birds to chirp, mornings are for blossom. Also mornings are for me to cuddle you to get that extra minute of warmth under your skin.