My skin, a canvas of silent stories,
whispers in its folds of past loves,
each mark a story, each shadow a legacy,
a map of kisses, sacred caresses.
Refuge of secrets, deep mystery,
there are whispers kept in every corner.
Laughter and tears melt in my world,
in this living flesh, this body of song.
They paint my veins the blood of the wind,
each beat, an echo of forgotten loves.
My hands, artists of an imposing silence,
weave in the skin the traces of the legacy.
Read next
From @asielda