and everytime
the moon asks
me about the
story behind the
coloured patches
of paint covering
my bed sheets,
a smile will slowly
kiss my face, while
my mind will drift
to those nights
when your hands
tore the layers of
clothes off me,
before laying me
on my stomach,
to take your brush
and stroke my
back so gently, it
sent chills up my
spine.
and with a cigarette
between your
cracked lips that
always tasted like
fresh blueberries
you would paint
and paint for hours,
almost driving
me to believe that
I was nothing
more than a canvas
to you, but
your cold fingertips
that would brush
against my skin on
purpose, calmed
my racing heart,
knowing that it
was your own
way of saying
' I love you '.
and when
reality will sink
in again, I would
finally say in a
a small whisper
" those are the
leftovers of
a romantic
tragedy ".
YOU ARE READING
Dried petals
Poetry"and I find myself tucking your smile in the space that lies between every letter .for babe , if I can't keep you by my side ,then I'll lock you in each poem these hands write down ."_Aya Highest rank #43 in poetry on 23/7/2017 .
