It would have been easy enough to kiss her, to lean in while she spoke about the things she loved, to taste the tea she'd been drinking on her tongue.
I can taste it, even though I never did, she still coats my tongue like liquor over ice cubes. She still stains my mind like red wine on a white carpet. Her body, beautiful, curves connecting like an intricate constellation, hair like the golden mess of a lions mane, and looking into her eyes was like looking into the sea, full of the unknown, and they left me with no air if I looked for too long. She smelled like a busy coffee shop, sweet, quaint, busy but charming. Her skeleton fit into mine like we could have been buried together. I would like to say that I'm over her, but I catch myself at night, when I think I'm safe to think, I think about what would have happened if I had kissed her. A forbidden wonder, a sin, maybe.
But she is a poem I can never forget, she, in herself, in her essence, is a poem that I will never be able to write.
