he stood alongside the swaying blinds- the curious moonlight melting in his muddy green orbs. he watched her watch him- leisurely undressing in a dirty yet pure rhythm.
the suit of raspberry sarcasm and clamorous but forged laughter colliding with the numbing floor where he used to lay on her lap- her fingers trying to liberate themselves from his idiosyncratic maze of caramel-dipped locks whilst humming along to radiohead- jane austen in his hands.
now the shirt of i don't give a fuck and radiant smiles – perhaps he will shed a tear from the corner of his insomniac eyes that used to crease with vanilla-flavored chortles.
but not yet. there was that bloody red tie asphyxiating his beseeching neck- untether himself from the sobs he aches to free into the abyss she had him confined in.
now the slacks of virtuousness and fanciful faith – he remains in au natural before her very presence.
he watched her watch him- her distraught gaze communicating to the deliberate scars upon his honey-glazed skin where she imagined daisies had painfully bloomed from.
dois-je dormir dans tes bras ce soir ?
she was a wild one hunting for a wilder rose.
YOU ARE READING
guava achings ✓
Poetrybanquets of succulent peaches in tin cans and pretty boys with passionflowers blossoming from their cuticles.
