You make me think of poetry -
the type that doesn't deserve to be written in ink.
I sing hymns about the way you twirl a cigarette stick between your thumb and your forefinger.
My spine tingles whenever your mouth curves slightly upward; your left eyebrow arched in derision.
You make me hold my breath when you tilt your head in my direction, your gaze full of dark promise.
You captivate me - mind, body, and soul.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
You make me think of poetry -
the type that doesn't deserve to be written in ink.
I sing hymns about the way you twirl a cigarette stick between your thumb and your forefinger.
My spine tingles whenever your mouth curves slightly upward; your left eyebrow arched in derision.
You make me hold my breath when you tilt your head in my direction, your gaze full of dark promise.
You captivate me - mind, body, and soul.
