I can’t help but to stare at her
and the way that she seems to brighten the world wherever she walks. Her eyes
Could rock me to sleep, sing me a sweet melody and
melt my insides. I can’t help but listen to her words
and the way they waltz across the pages, staying in tempo with my tongue. They are
leading the dance. I can’t help but to marvel at her, so
put together and so untouchable. My limbs are frozen, icy,
stiff without her touch. Oh,
if I could feel an ounce of her love, I could leave my bed in the morning. But
alas, when I wake, I am alone, watching her silhouette dance in my dreams. When she
wakes, her smile looks at the sun and burns
just as brightly, rivaling its rays. And her eyes are like
embers, while my eyes look like ***
and my clothing is wrinkled, while hers is folded neatly on
her bed in the morning. The
way that she can brush her hair aside, and it looks like an untamed fire,
the way her bangs look as if I could touch them, and feel the hot
flames. My hair is a cold dark open night, one worth chasing and
leaving behind. Her light will go fast,
you must catch it in a glass jar and
hold it close to you. When you feel angry,
you can watch as she darts from side to side, as
her aura fills you with glee and hope. She
is the reason why I get up in the morning and feel like I can
breathe. She is the reason I let myself be.
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 2:02 PM UTC
I can’t help but to stare at her
and the way that she seems to brighten the world wherever she walks. Her eyes
Could rock me to sleep, sing me a sweet melody and
melt my insides. I can’t help but listen to her words
and the way they waltz across the pages, staying in tempo with my tongue. They are
leading the dance. I can’t help but to marvel at her, so
put together and so untouchable. My limbs are frozen, icy,
stiff without her touch. Oh,
if I could feel an ounce of her love, I could leave my bed in the morning. But
alas, when I wake, I am alone, watching her silhouette dance in my dreams. When she
wakes, her smile looks at the sun and burns
just as brightly, rivaling its rays. And her eyes are like
embers, while my eyes look like ***
and my clothing is wrinkled, while hers is folded neatly on
her bed in the morning. The
way that she can brush her hair aside, and it looks like an untamed fire,
the way her bangs look as if I could touch them, and feel the hot
flames. My hair is a cold dark open night, one worth chasing and
leaving behind. Her light will go fast,
you must catch it in a glass jar and
hold it close to you. When you feel angry,
you can watch as she darts from side to side, as
her aura fills you with glee and hope. She
is the reason why I get up in the morning and feel like I can
breathe. She is the reason I let myself be.
In response to Cherry Wine, Golden Shovel-style, ala Terrance Hayes
