Rain

Your face is like Braille;
each bump
paints a photo across my hands.
I allow my fingers
to dip
into the dripping
watercolors of your lips.

The curves of your nose
melt
in the beds of my palms.
I try to cup your chin
like water in my hands.
How I yearn to drink your love,
sipping it
from the grooves of your jaw,
catching your love
on my tongue
as it plummets
from the summits
of your cheekbones.

Your face is like a meadow;
I bury my mouth
in the billowing grass of your beard.
The flowers of your face
tickle my eyelids,
so I sweep my eyelashes
across your forehead,
little stalks of kisses
swirling in the wind.

I press my cheek against yours;
I want to feel
the cool ground
of your bones.
Your skin is so warm.

Your face is like Braille;
I can see it
with my eyes closed.

Tamar Ashdot-Bari, Age 17, Grade 12, Fiorello H Laguardia High School of Music, Gold Key

This entry was written by NYC Scholastic Awards and published on October 14, 2013 at 2:00 pm. It’s filed under Poetry, Writing. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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