Bare

It’s not a dirty thing,

but still,

your cheeks burn bright

like each dying sun

just outside your window.

Fingers trace latent scars

carved by absent lovers.

Inquisitive journeys

spark a subtle answer,

“I still know how to move.”

Primal reflections,

Bare—

Every curve flowing into the next

roaring waves over a raw shell

that wraps up our tender hearts

each sensual notch gives rise to a glorious swell.

So you stand there,

feathers plumed out in full glory,

Hushed breathes

and storming anxieties

give way to a tentative call

“I am beautiful.”

Vibrations reverberating echoes

louder than the ghostly call.