How would they know?
How would she know that he loved the rain? Because it made him think about her.
That when the sun rises and the warmth of dawn's sun would bask him in light, he would be thinking of her, and her warmth. That every night he stays awake to see her in the night sky where all the stars would shine so brilliantly, he would look at it in intervals so that he wouldn't get overwhelmed by all it's beauty. That he saw her in everything. In every little thing.
How would they know?
How would he know that she loved hot summer days? Because it made her think about him.
That she looks for him at the corner of this shop—at that market that he loves. That once she does find him, her breath stumbles on itself, no longer of service to her, but more to him. That every night she tosses and turns in her bed, eager to sleep to dream dreams of him. Looking. Touching. Existing. That she loved the beautiful dirt beneath her feet because it reminded her of the rich color of his skin. That she sees him everywhere. In all the most beautiful places.
How would they know? How?
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories & Poems
PoésieJust some stuff that I think of/I've been inspired to write. (Even though I should be writing my other books). I'm down to taking recommendations. :)
