I can taste her skin on my lips.
It shines like a light
through a canopy of trees and leaves
breathless whispers on my lips.
I can feel her still,
etched like memories
on my fingertips,
poured into their padded whorls.
My prints, her hips.
That smile, those lips,
that part and pout
and mock my mouth.
Without a word
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.