seeded cherries are your lips,
blood is our wine —
we drink from the mouth
of a night’s vestigial appendage,
when the sky speaks of ecstatic
pains & pining sighs of a merlot-
moon.
cinnamon rings are my eyes,
russet are our limbs —
we feed on the saplings
of our fingers, the perspiring
sacrilege of our arduous
dreams & deep lines of a copper-
eclipse.
.
© Anmol Arora
Day 7
(Inter)National Poetry Month
HA's Place 
Wicked Game! I had to read through the cracks between my fingers! Oh Anmol, the passion here is palpable.
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A romantic, sensual and steaming scene all at once, I love it!!
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