Your skin:
Flush,
Rousingly red;
Goosebumps, they rush
Up to meet my tongue.
Your pulse is thin—
But blanket-lush—
And wantingly spread.
Your nape, needingly plush,
A ready rung;
We climb to where you are.
A thousand laid-to raids,
You exhale;
This siege is a pale
Remembrance
Of tripped-upon passion,
Of a youth-buried light-of-star—
Your salted instance,
A glinting bastion.
Tremblingly,
We wade
Into that irresistible gleam;
All but gone, we fade
Into wakeful dream.
Previous Post:
Poetry: Ghosts Becoming
https://windstrewn.com/2017/09/04/ghosts-becoming/
WINDSTREWN 
Very good work. Takes thought, but isn’t beyond comprehension.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you very much, Eduardo; I’m grateful for your comment. Poetry can be such an intellectual/emotional abstraction at times that the poet risks forgetting that he/she is actually trying to communicate something, even if only to self. I do earnestly try to remain comprehensible in my writing; there’s a precariously fuzzy line between being obvious as to meaning and leaving the door open for alternate interpretations and appreciations. This piece was spontaneous and, albeit brief, played hard at the abstract edge of that line by the time I was done…with regard to my tendencies anyway. I’m genuinely humbled that you found it worth your time and comment.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Certainly – just as it was worth my time to read your poem several times.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Moved by the passion described here John… beautifully written. Hope you’re well. 💛
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, M, I am well! And I’m glad this piece gave you something back for the time you spent with it. It was a sudden pen, without real-world reference, but the heart does hang to dreams. You know this as well as anyone! Thank you again, Michelle…
LikeLiked by 1 person
And without dreams there would be nothing to hope for. 😉 Take care John… Much love to you my friend. 💛
LikeLiked by 1 person