it was the clement manner in which he gaped at the habitual gulls agonizingly painting stories upon the pitifully-blue canvas, how his chapped lips slightly part with delight, hissing in amaryllis tainted oxygen. she needed an adequate amount of him.
he tasted like early christmas and pretty little lies upon her blemished lungs. his teal denim jacket never seemed to fit because he was too fucking small- but he was crazy pretty in her eyes.
when the setting velvet-sun bowed to the distorted constellations in the corners of his porcelain eyes, she found him too golden for her rusted chambers. once again she was reminded that there were no escaping his moon dust freckles and flamingo but melancholic lips, his hushed pinky promises, and mango-flavored lollipops.
he had a soft spot for mangoes- he was hers. the ludicrously yellow and saccharine ones- sudden pop of ecstasy upon bruised tongues; that's how the candied flesh of his hammering neck tasted between her famished fangs.
he had daisies in his hair and artless giggles upon his heart-shaped lips- she would clench at her heaving chest, her calloused heart beating unrhythmically.
she flew too damn close to the sun, now he would watch her fall like the fool she was.
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guava achings ✓
诗歌banquets of succulent peaches in tin cans and pretty boys with passionflowers blossoming from their cuticles.
