and she danced. not the way people do, but like the way words slip off a lover's tongue, like the way raindrops collide with flower petals, like the way ink curves on parchment paper. like how pearls looked draped across delicate collarbones. there was a flurry of magic in her, working her vessel like it was a puppet designed for the gods; an angel in action, feet glazing the floor with holy declarations of passion. the mask of her pristine elegance chiseled only by the vacancy in her eyes; hollow, heartless, heavy.
she was the piano keys under his fingers. the song his hands orchestrated, the art his heart hammered into his rib cage. confined, maybe, to the grace of music and the creative corridors in his mind- a fabrication of the woman he kept in a music box; plush, pink, and blind.
YOU ARE READING
ur sleeping on the couch
Poetrysticky cantaloupe sunrises & kissing ur soft honeydew mouth
