rain is drumming on my window like impatient fingertips,
my eyes are closed to mimic a pixie in an indie music video,
and my overactive imagination is reeling with
the idea of
rich fabrics, colored maroon and turquoise and gold
hanging heavy in a room weighed down by candlelight and musky lavender.
It stirs up guilty fantasies of a warm smile and even warmer hands,
Thick, calloused fingers that might press plump grapes to my lips,
or run cool cloth over the ridges of my spine,
present me with jewels and peaches
and treat me like a queen.
Make me your Helen of Troy,
christen me Cleopatra,
name me the Sun and pledge yourself Icarus-
or, you know.
you could just
tell me how your day went?
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
lorrrrrrddddd am i cringing: i found a similar snippet to this in an old English notebook and decided to salvage it to the best of my ability. i hope it made you laugh at 12-year-old me's writing, at the very least. enjoy thy day, cupcake.
YOU ARE READING
Lonely Thoughts
Poetry~technically, every day is leg day when you're running away from your problems~ ((alternatively titled: please enjoy my laughable poetry.))
