"Are words and paper the only medium for poet to express love?"
Oh, no.
They, too, have eyes that bore onto your skin, unravel the fabric of your being, dissect every smile in attempt to deduce an understanding of your soul.
Have lips that part to spill flowers for words that sprinkle a dust of pollen to either stain your cheeks or wet your eyes.
Have shoulders broad to hold your head heavy with thoughts and insecurities, arms ready to embrace and carry them alight your shoulders.
And have hands that appear large and rough but are gentle and eager to collect the shards of your shattered heart, unafraid that broken pieces cut skin.
"You're quite the poet yourself, Mug."
YOU ARE READING
Cup's
Short StoryFor Curtis Paisley, days pass like bland, monotonous paragraphs of plain thought and narration; till a strong gush of storm and gray eyes flipped through the pages almost aimlessly, before finally settling to the paragraph of his appearance... and w...
