she is precious. a small little girl made of butterscotch and butterfly tears. hands that won't stop shaking. arms made to hug.
a soft smile, a giggle, a wave of geniune happiness.
if you told her you were thirsty, she'd give you the last of the water she has in her bottle.
maybe you'd joke about how little it is.
"well, would you rather have me to bring the ocean here for you to drink, your highness?" she'd tease with full lips and halo smiles.
but good lord, she would if she could. she would if she could.
and maybe she did, metaphorically.
maybe that's why you drowned.
YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
