Meeting her, was at the most random of times.
And pardon my french, but life had kicked the living shit out of me; I never felt worth it of being in presence of something as ethereal as her laughter;
she's an exquisite art piece and I'm some stray dog too bored to exist.
But our paths miraculously crossed, by some wicked desire of faith.
Kissing her sparked fires I was unfamiliar with and tracing my hands over her skin felt like rediscovering the world, one I had walked upon several times, but now seemed brighter, clearer. Sunnier.
I was always a person of cloudy skies and torment nights,
But hers seemed like an ocean at ease
And I've never wanted to drown more
Between locks of silky hair.
Fingers tracing scars, dictate the verdict of my sanity while retelling stories I thought were too profoundly locked away to be shared.
She smiles, and calls me babe.
She calls me sweetheart and I believe her,
Despite the fact that my heart is rotten putrid into my chest.
I know this is just a start,
But I hope there's no ending,
For I've become a junkie of her lips,
The feeling of her hands on my body,
And the way her brain seems to understand mine,
Like nobody ever tried before.
YOU ARE READING
Footnotes
Poetrya series of unconnected scribbles of random topics that come across me.
