For some reason, (probably due to the stubbornness of the both of us) we always end up back at the argument of your eyes. You're so stuck in that infallible, quicksand idea that "brown eyes are basic" and you refuse to listen to me.
your eyes are:
Burning into me,
striking my rough, paper heart
like a needle-thin matchstick
and lighting the damp,
tear-stained embers
hidden inside of me until I am
dangerously lit in your embrace.
Aching with a million
glimmering, glittering stars;
unspoken feelings that you
cannot tell me and not for lack of
you trying, but as long as you
keep these feelings locked in your
strong, unwavering gaze,
it'll be okay.
Smothering my erratic,
humming-bird heart-beat and
ridding the demons that swim through
my veins, bringing me back
from the land of the dead
that I hold in my head,
reminding me continuously
that I am alive and that I can survive
the anxiety ridden days that seek to
devour me whole.
Intensity that inspires a bittersweet,
barely contained want of
your soft skin pressed
right up against me in the
dead of the night when you
only wear a shade of moonlight
and a sheen of sweat and
we recycle our breaths through
parted lips.
Capturing me in everything I am,
everything I could be and
loving each broken,
mosaic piece of me until
I can see that light might just
run through me, that you
are the one that lightens me.
YOU ARE READING
Roses, Cherry Vodka & Her Perfume
PoezjaA collection of (almost) love poetry inspired by my beautiful and exotic princess of a muse. (Please please please read and leave comments, I need some critics because I wanna give this to her as a present)
