Rapture
-
Isabel Tyrril, Grade 11
-
Poetry
-
2016
We sit together.
Hands grasping at half filled cups,
mine longing for his.
Eyes cast downwards
dark coffee, hazed with confusion,
yet they remained the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen,
hidden slightly by raw umber hair.
Knees graze softly, gentle skin, hungry,
hungry with lust.
Gravity pulls him back.
Right hand reaching out for left, cups now abandoned.
Cool palm skimming my jawline,
burning with desire.
Yet he still searches,
searches for any resemblance
of the one his heart belongs to.