petrichor

lace

lace is a stunning word that lays decadently on your tongue

and drips out in a gorgeous array of colour.

like when lacing up the back of your skin tight dress,

when you are leaving for the night,

but this dress isn't for them.

it's for you.

lace is self love.

but it changes to a word that is soft and child-like when you lace up your sneakers.

you can remember it, as a kid, when you just learned to tie your shoes.

it isn't a decadent word anymore,

but a glassy orangish pink colour that brings you the best kind of deja vu,

the deja vu that comes with a cup of tea in the morning.

this kind of lace is meant to be shared.

with a mother or with a daughter.

lace is memories.

and the word lace turns into a warm,

meaningfully hushed word,

when she sees what you wear tonight.

it's a word meant for the darkness

that envelopes the two of you in love and passion

and the sweet release of a delicate touch.

this kind of lace isn't meant for everyone or even just you.

it's meant for her.

lace is heat.

lace is anything, everything, or even nothing.

it can be the neon lights of the clubs you pass by.

it can be the gentleness you see in a child's eyes.

it can be the rush of sharing your first night with her.

it can be the hope of a better morning.

it can be the last time you let them in.

it can be the beginning of the last chapter, or even the first.

lace is the touch of the petals from the flowers you picked on your first date.

lace is the curtains in your first apartment.

lace is the string you use to tie up the box of things she left behind

when she leaves this place to go to a better one.

lace is the enjoyment of life in its fullness.