Photo by Osman Rana on Unsplash
His rough hands,
Caught the fuzz in my sweater.
His chapped lips,
Broke jokes, “don’t you love the weather.”
But it could have been 70,
As we laid there in the snow laughing.
He said, “I thought you loved London”
I said, “I’m not one for monarchy,
I’m more of a rebel”
Then I poured out my tea.
His beard scratched my cheek
As he snuggled in close,
Caressed my hair with his hands,
And whispered “Well, welcome home.”
About the Creator
Ellie Hoovs
Breathing life into the lost and broken. Writes to mend what fire couldn't destroy. Poetry stitched from ashes, longing, and stubborn hope.
My Poetry Collection DEMORTALIZING is out now!!!: https://a.co/d/5fqwmEb
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Comments (1)
Ooooo it was getting a little steamy. Love this ❤️