butterflies with razor wings will flutter down your skin every time she's near because you've never heard a voice like warm cream over hot coffee and eyes that enchanted even the worst kind of wars. "tear me apart," calls the survivor when she looks upon her saviour's pretty face (it's like museum art, only to be seen and not to be touched) she's the sort of masterpiece you chance upon in your thousands of artworks, accidentally done but the best. i never intended to have so many unsent attachments to you and it seems like everyone you talk to is left stuck in the dry and dark cracks of the floorboards, left to deal with the ghosts of their former selves. (trust me, the effect she has on the beings she touch is a fiery flame that burns out quick, but it feels like the most pleasant thing) what do i do now? your presence on the other empty line has been gone for ages (months, my dear) and yet i cant get over the high you've abandoned me with. this is something you find less common than whiskey bottles and far more expensive for a love like hers.
come back, please?
YOU ARE READING
endlessly,
Поэзияa collection of poetry, or something along that, to the person who made having a lead role in a tragedy play not so bad
