she allows the raindrops to get their way with her. they’re allowed to touch her in any way they please, running from angle to angle, tracing her curves like no human ever could. and then, when they’re done, they soak into her skin, down to the bone.

her feet dance, almost involuntarily, to the beating drum of God’s thunder. He knows how to play, He knows how to get her to move, in heart and by feet. she’s always loved the rhythm of any drum, but this one, from the sky, was much more special.

I think that she connected with the storm so well, because there was one raging inside her as well.

I’m laying in bed, that much is true.

But my mind keeps on runnin, I’m thinking of you.

I’ve caught the kiss that was flying through the air. I caught it, held it to my heart, and told it to stay there.

your fingers trace beautiful paintings in my skin, and your lips write poetry like silk against mine.

But you’re the real masterpiece,
         and honestly, I thought that I was the artist.

do you see that boy? that one is mine.
Let me paint him for you:

His eyes are the impossibly beautiful ones. The kind that aren’t one color, but thousands of shades at once. His eyes are worthy of drowning in.

His hands are the type that know to protect, but to never overstep their boundaries so clearly drawn. The type that might be cold, especially when they aren’t tangled perfectly with my own.

His hair is like a sea of midnight, with parts of the waning crimson of dusk shining through. Soft, like the moon’s glow, and long enough to smile into.

His skin is pale like fair moonlight against the dark shadows of the world. His skin is soft, but not too soft. Everything perfect to touch, and to kiss.

His lips are perfectly... perfect. When they’re twisted into a smile from a laugh from a joke or comment I made that wasn’t even really that funny. ((His lips are best when they’re writing beautiful words against my own.))

he is perfect. in so many ways.

Too cold. For April.
But we took a walk because we’re just young and in love, starving for time together.

The ice and snow beat us in the face, clinging to our eyelashes, interrupting our smiles with spits and sputters.

It was cold, too cold. But we held each other close, a fire between our hearts.

Then we went to the gazebo where we simply spoke beautiful words to one another, just us. Our arms were wrapped around one another, clinging like we would never hold each other again.

I told you something, admitted even. It hit me hard, I almost cried. That’s when you spoke sweetly to me, hugged me slightly tighter, and kissed me ever so gently.

but I remember the pinky promise.