Her voice sounded like milk and honey, lavender and fresh air.
She was cinnamon tea and leaves falling down during fall, ethereal and timeless, like she'd always be there.
Day and night, whether it was in your dreams or nightmares.
You'd look for her in every cup of coffee, you'd see her face in a winter flower, snow falling down on your face felt like a cold hug from her.
She was everything and nothing at the same time, words written on an old notebook, notes coming from a piano, paint on a piece of paper, tears down your cheeks, one of the many butterflies in your stomach.
She was simply her, and that was beautiful.
YOU ARE READING
Bad poetry at 2a.m.
PoetrySome thoughts can be scary sometimes, and that's the most interesting thing about our minds. we're able to scare ourselves just by producing thoughts. This is a small collection of poems that i wrote when my brain felt like it was on fire and stuck...
