Words gone cold turn into touch -
A play of shade and glints in eyes;
Words lose their hold, they fail as such,
Their echo only feeds our fright.
In outstretched hands lie silent prayers;
To them a whisper sounds too loud.
With warmth, with crimson, voiceless currents,
Speak without voice - stripped, unallowed.
Metal and velvet - sound made skin -
Will warm, then leave as ice again;
To take or give back heat through touch
Outweighs all loss, exceeds all gain.
The words of souls that learned to see
Are touches, spoken skin to skin:
From belief to trust, by touch set free -
A confession entering in.
Words gone cold
© Copyright: Дмитрий Левский, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126051304369
Свидетельство о публикации №126051304369
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