" Her hands smelt like flour and sugar from all the baking she did. Her hair smelled like strawberries and Her favorite shampoo. And the rest of her . . . Smelt like home. It felt like home. To me She is, home.
From the stains of paint and clay on her hands to the flour and blush on her cheeks, from the dirt on her shoes to the sand in her hair, everything from up and down and side to side was perfect, every corner and curve, angle and shape was absolutely breathtakingly, perfectly imperfect.
They were my favorite things about her.
From East to West, North to south and everywhere in between, wherever she was, wherever she went, wherever i went with her, when I was with her I was home.
And forever more. "
( - a.s )
YOU ARE READING
Ne Decorem
Poetry"Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?" - Virginia Woolf
