#quickthing

-Bo sztuki się nie niszczy.

Her chest is made of old railroads, boards rotten and broken, years of blood and sweat from hardworking men mixed into the dirt of her skin. Breast bone bending like mountains and hills and curves folding together. Golden hair pours over her shoulders and he looks at her like she is every sunrise he hasn't seen yet. She has poetry hidden between the sheets of their bed and tucked under her tongue, for every sleepless night she spends trying not to wake him. There are days where she wakes up clutching his waist and feels him tremble like a platform. Thoughts travel like wind off her lips and she kisses like passion. He loves the taste of depth that comes gliding over his tongue as she reads to herself. He will walk across her railroad skin with lips covered in honey and caution, because she still cries at night and he hates the sound of innocence breaking.