she gazes at your cherry-plucked smiles and raspberry tinted cheeks as her heart beats an overippened green like envy, happiness is a picasso-painted dawn on your sugary, sweet lips- a lively sun that spits fire upon pretentious pink skies and fair satin clouds - it was supposed to burn.
(and oh was she burning)
she thinks it up again, that smile of yours, when the day is gone and the sun is set- except she thinks it up on her lips. she sits under a waning crescent moon that kisses her hair a silky sallow like pearls and dances pale alabaster in her lashes as she echos your perfectly plucked pretty grin with dull eyes glassy like a doll carved from marble
(eyes are the windows to the soul after all )
and cheeks colorless and fragile like porcelain-plated eggshells
(perhaps she needs to be happy to look it?)
'almost', she whispers
(not even close)
she lives a moonlit fever dream where sad girls with sour grape hearts become van goghs under onyx skies and nightingale stars that sing across the polluted ebony pools of night. the breath of dusk chills her viridescent skin as she sketches your smile again and again, as though it is all the better having been on her frail, bitter lips.
'almost', she whispers
(not even close)
