Your arms around me are rich, oxblood velvet gloves that match a couture gown, and my lips against your hand are petals.
My own head is so paranoid, and I'm sorry that I make these beautiful things into metal and industrial machines meant for pain. I want nothing more than to love you and from all these bad things, refrain.
Your laugh is a string quartet, your walk is a waltz. I've fallen in love with you, and it's all your fault.
Your eyes are painted with divine murals that reflect myself in a more beautiful way than I've ever seen my own face. It is this luxury, this ballroom that I call your love for me, that constantly leaves me amazed.