S
he had always been a sucker for honeybees and roadtrips altogether. when i first saw him, sunburnt noon in august—also known as the first day of art class, and by art class i meant sketchpads and glitters and color palette mixed of assorted paints aloft. he walked into the class held in the vineyard of our old professor, manila williams. wearing nirvana shirt, color-washed denim with peonies and daisies at the back of his tainted pocket, heavensent eyes intricately speaking of meadows and grassyards looking for butterflies sleeping inside its roses or perhaps, in his soul. the world finally ended.
i wasn't smitten like crimson rose before, wilting after being caught up in this all summer game of sun dipped teenagers: love. but you were an exception—cyan among van gogh blues, you were an exception. hair fleeting so free as if a grass under the sunray beam, lips dripping wet of cherry wine from a bar in texas, freckles scattered throughout the cheeks like stars ablaze with lotus sigh.
art had always been a hot paradise, metaphorically defining you. but you were complex, indefinite and undying. soft flower girls cry over your being, as if getting awake in the crescendo of a pink daydream. holy ode would i write you thousands of similes comparing your plum smile to the acacia leaves or seafoam riffles, like raw harmony i know you are fond of.
dazed, sunboy could speak of million languages that mayhap, made me fall for his pollen grain like a bumblebee. he perfectly resembles the sea and garden and michealangelo's painting. fingertips entwined together with mine, two moons and seven suns finally collide. and the next thing i knew, you kissed me and i only tasted holy water of an old orchard, then i was reborn to my next life.
and that
makes you
as the origin
of my everything.
—swevenry.
