Shey

POETRY IS ALWAYS REGARDED AS AN EMOTIONAL OUTLET

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving,
I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me,
dawn disrupts me,
all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam
flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry,
sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you,
for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
pAblO nERudA