Have a tendency
To run away
The succumbing of the body. A multiverse of gratitude prospering to numbers and numbers of different equations set by the timeframe of some data. The child that freezes and realizes its fault and cries, sobs to its mother. The ticking time bomb of thoughts attacking every single brush of a fingertip and every blink of the eye. the picture of dorian gray hung upside down with satanic signs seeping into the paint. The cold breeze washing over the youngling flowers. The becoming.
What is heaven but a tropical world filled with red lipstick printed butterflies. Sand seeping into places you used to despise. The ocean, the mother god, latching onto you creating you, its prey. What is paradise but the whispers of secrets that you should never have known. Of your friend who stole a boys' kiss. The very boy who made you blind and created an utmost infinity of bliss. But no, he didn't love her, he was the very messenger, the bird who flapped his wings and mimicked a boy in love.
You spread your legs. Because all you have learnt is that you are the paradise. You become the wonderland of Alice.
a sultry voice whispering into your ear, making your heart flutter to the beat of the words. the sensation of euphoria like ocean waves rushing through you.
heaven is the ache in your stomach when the night feels everlasting and you connect with another being. just being.
paradise is belonging. it is being one.
it is the feeling of a stranger's lips on yours, intoxicated. The sweaty palms of the other exploring places only few have encountered.
it is a distant memory. feeling reminiscent of a time that once was.
it is the first steps you take without a helping hand. A free bird.
Lanturne by the looks of it.
— The End —