There is something in her
youthful capriciousness.
An eager vitality pushing out,
but each movement steeped
in a tender pride;
forced awake in sudden
flares of anger.
To see those brushstroke fingers,
long and carved like talons
as they paint themselves white
in clenched frustration.
To see those dark eyes;
ripping towards and
through you in
sharpened rage.
There is something in that
youthful capriciousness.
Love comes quick as hate;
anger and happiness
lined shoulder to shoulder.
To see those cautious hands,
soft and stubborn,
pulling waves across
your skin.
To see those endless eyes;
telling you everything
she never could quite
find words to say.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC
There is something in her
youthful capriciousness.
An eager vitality pushing out,
but each movement steeped
in a tender pride;
forced awake in sudden
flares of anger.
To see those brushstroke fingers,
long and carved like talons
as they paint themselves white
in clenched frustration.
To see those dark eyes;
ripping towards and
through you in
sharpened rage.
There is something in that
youthful capriciousness.
Love comes quick as hate;
anger and happiness
lined shoulder to shoulder.
To see those cautious hands,
soft and stubborn,
pulling waves across
your skin.
To see those endless eyes;
telling you everything
she never could quite
find words to say.