Her eyes and lips and waist are sad poems,
which he finds pretty, but hard to look at, due to
the fact that unlike anyone else in the world, he's
indulged himself in the words she's composed of;
he's ran his fingers over the black print covering her
skin, and, mesmerized by her story, found solace in the
melancholic stanzas of optimistic sadness.
A girl with eyes as wide as the moon, maybe even wider,
hides behind books and songs and movies,
which prove nicer than the real world.
He stands tall and silent, one epic poem too long for
the world to read. However,while he's
fast asleep, she runs her fingers over the words and
pictures he's made visible to the world. One long,
sad poem about the world, one the rebels would marvel
at, about what it really is and what it never was.
Tattoos starting at the nape of his neck,
traveling down his arms and back, ink spilled upon a
lonely canvas, displaying a sad but accurate portrayal
of him: the boy who grew up too fast..
They're both odd and difficult to understand;
they are the poems that do not rhyme, the ones with
breaks midway through lines. Scriptures written along
the brims of both their beings, about a precocious boy
with tattoos and a naïve girl with dreams.
Love and dreams and perfume and flowers,
stars and books and blood and tears,
tears and blood and fire and angst,
want and drugs and needles and hate.
But that's okay.
In their affair of little talks, awkward silences,
holding hands beneath tables and speaking with their eyes,
they make beautiful silk webs of words, which hang from
the ceilings, are strewn along the walls and cover them in
their sleep.
Words to lines to stanzas to poems to stories.
Never had there been a more bitter-sweet relationship than
that of two beautifully sad poems in love.
Where he won’t say ‘I love you’, and she swears she understands,
and he sits on the sidelines drinking, while she waits to be asked to dance.
old, but mine