I rest my forehead on his soft wooden bark of a chest. He smelt like summer breeze.
I cry a little.
He pauses and rests the palms of his hands on my soft hair. His touch was a million masterpieces gracing me with its presence.
I shake a little.
His cheeks rested against the top of my head. His cheeks were soft and I could feel the rosiness.
I start pulling away.
YOU ARE READING
HIM
Poetry[Highest: #994 in poetry lol] He's exotic and eccentric. The way he speaks, the way he moves: so gracefully but also so carelessly. As is the way his spirit is childish and interesting but aged and mundane. He's a mystery I'm starting to get hooked...
