𝑨 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝑻𝒐 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑽𝒐𝒊𝒅 [ 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑑 ]

22nd of August

Everyone knew that she has a soft touch for almost everything- she had always been a sucker for minstrelsy of the 18th century, of William and Poe's poetries and songs of the opera. She has craved to see sunsets of Hawaii and to chase butterflies in stomach. She was so fragile and delicate- sunburnt skin and orbs reflecting her own soule.

She walked in- sunburnt in the 22nd of august. She held so much in her that I could not fathom, no matter how hard I did try. A pachydermatous lady with no regard for the downfall of love. Sitting on the last row, she took out her own definition of class. Class for her was blank pages of notebook filled with words I could not decipher, glitters and withered roses on pages and write ups that could set one's heart on fire. She was in a ponytail and the painted tulips and peonies on her skirt were beautiful, but I saw something more- heavensent orbs sophisticatedly screaming for roses and vines, for the thrills of an almost touch and for butterflies in a jar. I saw those and those were beyond beautiful. She was beautiful.

I was a stranger with love and my mind told me that it was treacherous- it couldn't be trusted. It was dangerous and risque and perfidious and false but gods were playful- you as their instrument, they told me to play. I was caught, got stuck and could not find my way out in this game of ocean-dipped teenagers: love. It was August and it was vivid.

She walked in, gracely flaunting her heart around the room. Her face lightened up, as if it was under a sunray beam and her freckles twinkled as if those were the luminaries lighting the midnight sky. Her lips were dripping with glossy wine from a famour bar in Paris and yes, she was almost perfect. No words could define her entirety; no songs could define her inner melody, but I was certain that my love could somehow define her.

My system had gone exempted by the beauty of Van gogh's. My soul was not affected by the words of Sparks nor Albom and Austen anymore. But again, with you, I ain't. I had been running away from this- been running away from you but the scent of your lavender blue dilly dilly was chasing me, always. I was caught and got stuck again, caged inside the arms of your seafoam touch and I found myself begging for more.

Your mixtapes, unsent letters, unheard recording and your polaroid photographs were hidden inside me still- safe and sound and that, you did not have to worry. No matter how hard I try to run away from you in this lifeline, I know you could always find me. No matter how far I send my breathings to the coastline of australia back to the city that never sleeps, I would find it again, in the plum of your smile.

You were and will always be the twenty-second of my August.