You were everything. You weren't always, I suppose. But those coral depths, the sand ridges birthed from the deep waves that hit you, always standing strong;
Those ginger kissed dirty blonde curls you'd wrap around pencils;
Your rose red cheeks that lifted every so often in a way to make it look like the sun was just rising over them;
Your lips the only visible mark of your so loved ancestry. Dark, thick, and always beconing;
Your walk was a thunder of the gods, one foot in front of the other. You didn't need a stage when the side walk spoke your name;
Your voice always high, but always beautiful, a gentle kiss upon the earlobe of anyone it dare ring to.
But there you are now. After all these years, you've chopped away the curls in place of a blue stripe. Your eyes so much deeper. Your voice a quake more than a song. Your walk has turned stumble. Your cheeks barren and pale. Your lips are now cracked, flaking; I still want to kiss them.
I remember when we left each other, we said it just wasn't the time. So I waited and loved and loved and loved. This guitar string heart pulsing through this fragile chest plate. My vocal chords awoke in the night, dancing your name. I hid it.
But we promised we always love each other. We promised. We promised to heed one another. Didn't we?
But there you are. I ask myself; does she love it? The marks left by bear claws and hungry teeth? The swollen red ring on her neck? Does she adore the suffocation of his hands? Does she love the way her shoulder blades sink into midnight blue sheets? The way he looks at her like meat bait? The way he smiles? If he rang a bell, she'd salivate; does she like that?
More over, does he love the smile that arches just like her back; a little crooked? Does he appreciate her Orion's belt freckles on her forearm? Would he kiss every razor kiss line? Would he dance with her to her favorite music? Wish her well on distant adventures? Would he love that glance to his lips after a heated kiss? Wash her curves in the shower? Kiss her like she's never gonna come back?
Would he love her like waves do the moon; lashing against the shore to appreciate her gift of life?
Like she is a cactus; you must be willing to get hurt to get what is sweet and beautiful within her.
As if she is fire; wild and beautiful, willing to provide, but look at her dance.
Like a waterfall, her dropping bits breaking apart the harsh world around her, but bathe in the escape she presents.
Like music, she can make you feel anything if you just listen.
He won't. I know he won't. I'm angry.
He doesn't see the world she has defined for herself, or everything she's survived. He does not see the wild in her chest. He does not see her tears as a blessing. He does not see those scars as everything she should have given up from. He doesn't want to see the pictures he can draw from her freckles. He doesn't see the yellow light, she'll cut your hair too. He doesn't see her thunder walk. Her black ink revenge. Her tenerife sea dancing. Her noose. Her self righteous self destruction. Her innermost duality. Her self-tilled grave. The digging she will keep doing. The devil in her. The earthly goddess. He doesn't. None of them do. They don't see the sunrise of a new day.
So I will wait, for one touch, one taste.
I will wait until I become the doctor for her broken tendon heart, so I can show her what love is really like.
That letting go, isn't necessary.
They say if you sing to a nightingale, she will return to hear the duet.
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
annaxmalina
turnnoffyourmind
pixelskylines
izzy806
