Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The vinyl stick drags in awe When you walk in the room, there's you With a smile akin to a firefly or maybe two.
You are a happenstance, weighing in gold Time on the adversity of a tragic moment, You are fourteen lines of purity in sonnets.
The smell of roses on your shirt, forms shapes On prickly stems, that hits me like a gentle peck Of an ice-cream of wintry summer flecks.
You wear tecoma bracelets on your wrists, Your skin is sweeter; no spine shivers on the street And I treat forty nine degrees as a festival tryst.
As far as smiles bring on cyclones, You are the kind of earthquake on low frequency, But the tremors of the twitch of the lips create cracks.
The vinyl record restarts, as you exit the room, I'm perhaps melancholic in a childish fashion, and I'll wait for you with roses in hopes of your bloom—
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
