The mouth is a killer, the sinner,
the kinder,
softer
part of you.

She had violets blooming in her eyes.

They hold the night
and
a daybreak's first breath.

Let gravity do its damage.

He said he liked her hair long:
messy and unruly against
upturned cheeks and winks.
Braided secrets running
between lilac
blooms and plaits.

He tasted of *** and berries
Short. Sweet. Sin.

He is a wisp of an
inferno eating
all the words playing

tip toe

on her bitten lips.

Winter came as a painter’s
brush dipped in blue and grey.

Secrets that taste of sleep
syrup and honey  f r o z e
Drunk bees dance in
pale and grey roses.

A careless mistake came
in bruises, a stain of
an indigo sunset.

Rusty kitchen scissors snip,
snip, snipped away all
the bad, sugary tartness
eating a toothache.

Spring crept up on a
bare nape and shoulders
Her sun-baked eyes burned,
softened like butter,
maple syrup and something
harder than life.

I saw my days in your eyes,

the flecks of gravel, a little grey cloud
&
a deep warmth between the hazel specks.

Daydreaming of rain & dry spells.

He said he liked her hair long.

She just had a pixie cut.

So, she put down the kitchen scissors.
Letting spring and summer warm her bones.

And then he dared to say
"I miss your high cheekbones and the nape of your neck."

I drew specimens carrying XY chromosomes as sharp, angular.

But really you're this
gorgeous, warm, breathing breadth of muscle,
tendons & bones.

On the inside,

I'm a wonderland.

you tend to realise several things.

1.  Infatuation and love affairs with phones.

2. Everything and everyone is a variable.
The probability of being on this lonely carriage again as that stranger with 5'o clock stubble sitting across you is infinitesimal.

So, when you find a constant, that is when things get interesting.

Uninterrupted eye contact.
The same dated train tickets stuffed deep into pockets.

3. All these people. All these faces.
I think I am getting to know love.

honey*,
I am no princess,
I am a queen.

That stranger had cheeks stained by berries & a summer's day.

A smirk hanged off his lips as if it was a semi-colon.
;
Half-opened lips as if in midsentence, when in fact he has said nothing.

And all this time,
his eyes was on you.

She wants to feel a warmth;
the stirrings of something far too good, too much for her heart.

She had a very sweet heart & a tooth.

Which one turned bad first?

You tell me.

So,
there we were under december lights and burnt out matchsticks,

looking like we've fallen in love tonight.

It was all eyelashes and hastiness drawn out.
You braided secrets & warm murmurs into my hair;
then a smirk into my left shoulder blade.

Your lips tasted like something,
someone

I wanted more of.

We have to wither and die a little.

Prune, snip off all the bad, no-good things.

Even the parts that grew another home in your veins and bloomed roses around your ribcage.

Thing is, it is a place you need not visit anymore.

Burn down all the empty houses
with
light-bulbs still on & unlocked doors.

You need not wait.

From the ashes and bones,

there, you're *blooming.

"Stop, you're tickling my heartstrings."

"Don't ******* over there-
You'll feel a half-moon smirk and laughter in your left shoulderblade."

let her staunter through twigs, broken leaves and buds of cigarettes.

{Nothing will bloom from them.}

Let her know the difference between the innocence of a white dress and white flowers.

Let her realise the uselessness of a lighter with damp, soggy cigarettes.

{You never needed the latter.}

Let her feel the nervousness of a stranger bandaging a wound,

& then the shyness of the fiftieth kiss.

There is a difference.

Let her know she never needed you, but

The big but is that

she loves him
&
he loves her.

In the crook of their necks,
the two thieves fell in love.
♡

Instead of trying to find the galaxies in someone's irises,
look up.
Right into the sky.

So, then, when you do find a star;
that proverbial twinkle
between
one's eyelashes,
****,
wouldn't you be sure?

I would like to be that girl;
the protagonist that doesn't cry.
Where she is able to push aside fears and tears, like fog on a mirror.
Her hands aren't afraid to be ***** and ******.

But bitterness and anger drool stickily on mine.

Right now, I am what I am.
This is all you get.
And it's not up to myself
for you
to
want me.

Sleepy eyes,
a truthful tongue.

Slow breathing,
a curious heartbeat.

Eyelashes and hair;
a messy scrawl.
Reminiscent of careless ink sketches.

{you're a kind of beautiful.}

They wrote

girl

in the centre of the page.

Word connotations tranfusing into veins of ink.

Pretty synonyms { eyelashes, flowers, cherries, collarbones} lilting with virtue.
A marriage between dainty and fragility.
A wink of buttery pastries & flushed cheeks.

Why the hell did it take so long to put
strong
brilliant { sun & stars }

w-o-m-a-n
{equals}
?

for the fact that
counting stars seem to be a pretty lonely thing to do.

" But then again, life itself is a paradox. All in betweens and slow dances between yes & no.

Maybe what I would like is certainty and promise.
I want a sunday morning, 2:49pm phone calls,
unwashed dinner plates in the sink, two towels needing a tumble-dry.
Two tooth-brushes. Grocery bills worth two & a half stomachs.

To know the taste of someone's laugh.
Something that started as butterfly kisses
that burned into
                   a slow bloom of an inferno.

But Monday will come and life continues."

Love will come back to you in nameless ways.
Pale imitations of it finds itself in buttery cookies
& all kinds of sweetness.

In the catch of someone's laugh.
Your fingertips try to recognise their rough & sharp edges.
It is not theirs .

It is the hum of summer hot against your skin.
Though, the fire burns brighter inside of you.

It comes back, even if the night speaks of ravens and inkiness.

Show me a way,
I'll give you a will.

Till then, let's continue lighting
maps
&
burning
compasses.

Something odd, warm (almost the temperature of balmy summer nights) stirred the tendrils of veins, muscles and blood.

It felt like hot showers, bare skin on sheets + ice-cream against azure skies.

It is a something so very lovely.

The shallow breaths & hot air.

We will need it later.

Pepper the words & syllables of anger over 'I want you' s.

Let all the unintentional bitterness settle and rest in chipped porcelain bowls.

We can wash it away with soapy bubbles.

P.S Remember oven mittens over hands that have already been burned.

I ran out of vanilla beans & rock sugar.

The porcelain bowls were left with this peculiar mush of bitterness.
An odd sharpness shuddering down into my empty stomach.
My fingers slipped:
I added a pinch too much of regret
&
a tablespoon
of sadness.

One day, airy concoctions that taste like summer memories will flit in and out of the kitchen window.

It's okay, & maybe if I am lucky someone's knee will playfully bump against mine.
Flour on noses & cheeks.

One day.

He had a heartbeat like a hummingbird.

And there we were drinking in the stars,

syllables, rhyme & reason, sweet nothings
burning down
our tongues and throats;
a wisp of an inferno.

The sun rise was our full-stop.

She lit up the unfound constellations of sweet syllables
in
the recesses of his mind.

innocence

blooms

at dawn.

His lips told the stories of sleep & day-dreams.

Heavy on his tongue was a white lie.

Between the wink of his teeth was yet another.

And that is how she knows what truth tastes like.

It's time to be happy,

happy to the tip of my toes & flicks of my rather short eyelashes.

We all go through life punctuated
by
*lies, loss & love.

She does not speak of metaphors & rhymes.
She's more than pretty things & sweet excuses.
Her skin will not smell of sugar,
vanilla
&
butter.

Eventually, the letters will just be letters.
{But they will always be mine.}

The syllables of lovely words will wilt a little. After all, blooms & daisies die.

His scent will never linger in your hair or on the edge of collars.
The kind of heart I wore on my sleeve will just be something I used to wear.

And he will wish someone Good night
in the way it is
not
a goodbye.

Crushed strawberries bled into freshly-washed white shirts.

Fingerprints upon hand-prints.

Breaths captured between smudges of sunlight.

The wink of bare rib-cages between hands and curious eyes.

Shyness blooms between gaps bubbling between
freckled noses & mouths.

She has felt the rough edges
of
anger marrying sadness
against her
front
teeth.
The way happy tasted on her tongue.
And she has yet to find a right constellation of syllables for love.