his eyes are the colour of coffee,
-warm and romantic
when he looks at me,
i feel like i'm looking into the window of a coffee shop.
the walls painted in mahogany.
and coffee stains.
he looks at me with caffeine weaved into his eyelashes
energy lingers within his iris.
my frail hands tremble
my eyes light up with the exchange of energy through lovers glances.
i haven't slept in days
his lips are crimson like wine,
and they bleed into mine like ink does to a page -
slowly but deeply.
scarlet kisses between hopeless romantics,
entangled with flames.
my throat is an inferno.
burning as his tongue seduces mine in,
the cave where my laughter hides on gloomy afternoons.
my lips are numb like lonely palms are when autumn decays,
and all i can taste is a bittersweet elation,
like blood as it lingers in your mouth.
i'm drunk again
and his arms built a house,
inside of me.
a quaint bungalow with the walls tinted ivory,
the smell of vanilla mingling with oxygen fresh in the air,
a house that feels like singing birthday candles to sleep,
and your first kiss.
the house you return to when,
your hands are rosy with winter absorbed into your lifeline.
it's the house that you can't stop coming back to,
because it feels like christmas, even in june.
and no matter how hard you try,
you can't wash away the love signed by;
wine spills and laughter absorbed into the carpet.
when he touched me:
he built a house with his hands,
and made it feel like home
*i've never been so homesick.
