The camera lens, like the piercing stare of your lingering eyes, twinkles in the foreground.
I stare deep inside like I am looking into the soul of the earth hoping you will see the way I look today and understand how I feel now that time has changed everything.
Around me, small echoes of children laughing reverberate off of hotel walls that are decaying from the trials of seasons and time.
Sitting against one of the walls, I find a sense of comfort knowing that nothing lasts forever.
I try to remember that even when things loose the sort of false perfection of something new if I can remember how things once were, memories can be preserved, solace can be renewed, and I can find excitement in other perfectly imperfect new things.
So here I sit against a creme colored structure. My back against a blank canvas with the past behind and endless possibilities ahead.
The only lingering, twinkling eyes, are the green ones staring back at me, colored by the trials of love and lust–rejection and acceptance, and the stains of canvassed love turning into a pretty picture.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
The camera lens, like the piercing stare of your lingering eyes, twinkles in the foreground.
I stare deep inside like I am looking into the soul of the earth hoping you will see the way I look today and understand how I feel now that time has changed everything.
Around me, small echoes of children laughing reverberate off of hotel walls that are decaying from the trials of seasons and time.
Sitting against one of the walls, I find a sense of comfort knowing that nothing lasts forever.
I try to remember that even when things loose the sort of false perfection of something new if I can remember how things once were, memories can be preserved, solace can be renewed, and I can find excitement in other perfectly imperfect new things.
So here I sit against a creme colored structure. My back against a blank canvas with the past behind and endless possibilities ahead.
The only lingering, twinkling eyes, are the green ones staring back at me, colored by the trials of love and lust–rejection and acceptance, and the stains of canvassed love turning into a pretty picture.