when she talks
she's scattered stars compared to the constellations in your eyes
the veins on her eyelids
like small showers against your thunder storms
her lips like mere daffodils
against your budding rose petals
and my heart twinges every time we kiss
because all im tasting is a small flame
compared to the forest fire i felt with you

and I hate comparing her to you
not saying that she is less of a work of art
she is beautiful canvas but i not her artist
my hands feel no familiarity in her slopes
my chisel can't trace her curves
she is a work of art
but her strokes do not belong to me
than again
i don't think you were ever mine either