We were laying on my rug,
staring at the ceiling and
listening to music, drowning
out the world with its sorrows
and scrutinized tomorrows, reduced
solely to how grand our actions
will be, rather than the deep
care and thought it goes into doing
something, anything.
"Charlie?"
"Yes?"
"I think I have an idea about
our painting."
"Yeah? Wh-What is it?"
I turned over to my side,
and looked into his eyes,
and how his eyelashes so
effortlessly blinked, and how
his lips were so close to mine,
or how our eyes met and I
could feel my heart pounding
in my chest.
"You," I whispered as he
pulled me into his arms for
a kiss.
YOU ARE READING
shades of red
Poetrywhen you have too many thorns, all you can do is paint them in red, because, maybe then, they will look like petals [sequel to shades of blue]
