Thighs.

by hangonz92

Thighs

in the grey light

of London morning

shine

pale and clean

after a night of

lonely dreaming

and cry tears

of forgotten touches

and longing.

Smooth and tender,

they weep

for love lost.

This empty morning

solitude.

Their creamy skin

an ancient language

long since expired

by time.

Known by no one

but the words themselves.

Spoken only by those

as forgotten.

White as the sheets

which trap them.

Still as the heart

which sustains them,

and as expendable.

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