soon.

xlii.

̶ ̶ xlii. REALISM.

i fell in love with the words between his fingers and the way they unfolded when his pen hit the straight lines. the way his eyes traveled from letter to letter, the way his lips moved effortlessly along.

he didn't realize how much of a poem he was himself. how his lanky body curved like a crescent moon in his chair or how his hair moved like the oceanic waves curling over themselves. in my eyes, he was a poem that wounded my heart, causing a cold wind to crawl up my spine and leave bumps down my legs.

the day he fell out of love with me was the night he wrote one last final poem titled, "the museum". he talked about me like van gogh had spent years working on a masterpiece.

till this day, 
he is still my favorite poem.