In the blackness of my inner dark,
My pain, a simple moth,
Is guided by a beacon of pure, white light,
Through forests, endless charcoal forests,
Pining, questioning, searching.
A lonely bat in the silent cave of my soul.
On it flies, on and on, through the senseless, restless twilight,
Until it settles, as fragile as the first snowflake of winter,
On your tits.
A touching love poem, that’s also very true to the male experience of woman.
Said someone else. To me.