If his kisses were a color, I imagine they would be blue,
Sinking into them like the rippling ocean.
The magic of his beauty pouring into me like the dazzling sky.
He was hard to love not because he was broken,
But because he wouldn’t let the jagged edges of his broken bits cut me.
With tender hands and brilliant smiles,
I could turn his fractured knives into smooth gems,
Whittling them down to grains of sand on sunkissed beaches,
And planting flowers in his heart where dark and abandoned gardens have formed.
Black fear anxiously dances in his eyes.
His electric blue kisses and his charcoal black solitude,
Create a color that craves both pleasure and danger.
In this limbo he remains, growing gray,
Chasing love and healing away.