Vanilla. The bitter scent of a coffeehouse
mixed with sweet beautiful intelligence;
perfection; spontaneity.
Words run on the pages, joy can be found
in even the smallest of things.
Grounded; confident.
The white of innocence, not a single stain,
multicolored beige brings professionalism
in all its forms.
Life is a game of who knows who.
It’s impossible not to know her.
Abstract strings are pulled and tugged
until even the sturdiest of structures fall,
leaving the remnants on the ground to be
picked up one by one.
A sole painting filled with the reds of anger,
of love. The black and white stark
against the murkiness. Even the gold,
highlighting what went missing.
One. They’re still one. A little girl,
the blond bundles pulled into two
on the top of her head, seeing the world
from her father’s eyes.
Childish; just like he was,
once upon a time.
Just like he was, when those eyes focused
on the tough blue of denim, when
a fight was never an argument,
it was a game.
Who is right, who is wrong,
none of that matters if one never
backs down. She would never
back down.
She was never spontaneous.
She was a planner. Always one
to hold a grudge, always one
to win.
She was first. First
kiss, first love,
first date.
Her hair fell down on her shoulders
in curls, down in spirals
bringing him down as he fell.
He fell hard, looping back around
to the other side. Choosing jeans
over a painting. Choosing the chaos
over the calm. Choosing the calm
of a fight over nothing at all.
It was with her
that he’d find his love story.
