Flowing through the open window of our alcove is the whisper of psithurism as the breath of nature caresses my cheek.
Then I open the curtains of my soul to bask in the sun and everything that God has given me.
In spite of my clouded head under the star that beams with saturated yellow, it becomes as blue as the ocean as my soul gazes at the art before me which I cannot repaint.
From those sharp lines that defines his visage, to the candies that I am addicted to; up to the well-structured bridge of air, then to the small hairs of the his soul's curtains and lastly; to the cloud that I shuffle due to the passionate twist of my core, I quiz the artsy me.
With these hands that he confides delicate, these are yet to be capable of stroking those graceful features.
The corners of my lips trudge halfway towards my ears as I relish my moment of basking in the grace of an angel.
As the chirps trickle the open recess, the soul that bars me in peeks at mine - slowly and delicately.
The clash of orbs makes the butterflies' flap their wings freely inside my stomach. As my blood cascade upwards, I blow my windows wide open just to block the sunlight again.
I lean forward to the cage where his core is contained with balled sheets in my grasp.
His lazy chuckle saturates the atmosphere which pulls my head up with a frown.
Then his signature smirk finds its way to his angelic face as he says with a slice of cake:
"Good morning."
YOU ARE READING
Holding on Phantoms
PoetryUnder the livid moon and stardust sky, I hold on my phantoms. My grasp is stout like my life depends on them, so I stand still and bare the zephyr ghosting on my skin. I let the icy touches send shrills of excitement as I bask in the heat of my phan...
