the mirror used to reflect a smudged grayscale of wasted ink and pencil sketches,
but you helped reveal watercolours in my smile and turn this blank canvas into a masterpiece.
and now it's you who sees cold coffee in your eyes and wilted leaves in your hair,
and i wish i could find the words to tell you that i don't see what you see;
i see a boy with blood like sunrise and arms like the first day of summer.
but the words keep getting trapped in my throat
and i wonder if you'll ever know just how beautiful you are to me
YOU ARE READING
Small Talk
Poetry❝ we're just fumbling through the grey, trying to find a heart that's not walking away. ❞ [ a collection of drabbles, musings and poetry: sometimes i like to pretend that i can write poetry when there's things i want to get off my chest ]
