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It feels like paintbrush
Fingertips caressing
Porcelain canvas;
Like a gentle metronome
Between your shoulders,
Held in chrysalis arms.

It feels like butterfly
Kisses under cotton sheets.
Passionate hands carve
Into electrified skin, and
Your ears attune to
The static moans from
A pair of sealed lips.
I've cast a hundred
Smiles at strangers and
Loved ones and no
Smile back has ever meant
More to me than yours.

I've gazed into a dozen
Pairs of eyes, trying to
Spark my clairvoyance.
I'd yet to see the future
Until I dove into yours.

I've poured all my love
To only a few, and none
Have nourished my soul like you;
Like a fresh breath after April showers,
And I am in full bloom.
I wake in the belly of a poem.
Wading into watercolor
And a twisting labyrinth
Of Boston ivy.
I can't see through this fog
But it can see through me.
Words like pollen glide
On the wind and
Guide me like fireflies to
A sanctuary of wildflowers.
Here, everything speaks
To me, fluent in my native tongue.
Inhale, exhale, repeat until there's peace.
Bonsai at my feet as if
My toes are whispering to the roots:
"Grow, blossom, thrive",
And I will learn to
Take my own advice.
Kim Koi Apr 2019
It was quite a show.
So here we are,
curtain call and all,
the collective clapping
of an audience
who are ready
to finally empty
this theatre of sorts,
loud enough for
us to hear from
the backstage corner.
The critics write
of our sharp dialogue—
genuine, they say,
and maudlin, too,
some others note.
A twofold act:
here we begin,
and there we
end, all our lines
rehearsed, and
all movement,
perfectly choreographed.
It was, really,
quite the show
everyone expects.
After this,
all this,
we’ll bid farewell
to the roles we play,
and be back
to being strangers
once more.
To whoever out there that are going thorugh hard times in their relationship.
myranda Mar 2019
Stop asking if she's fine
The words she hears has changed her
She has started pushing people away with no respect
These people say ****
and denie the fact there hurtting her
Always had a prombles with relationship
did you even know saten used to be an angle
Then society changed him to the devil
Herselfher Mar 2019
Took him for granted
Maybe he was not that bad
I didn’t realize what i had
Until someone else
gave him a chance
For her,
he is the best
She has ever had
For me he is my sad
Past
Wayward Mar 2019
You
What is it about you that holds me smitten? Is it,

These hands,
These hands that send me to ecstasy.
These hands that entwine with mine.
These very hands that hold me close to you.

These lips,
These lips that caress my body, loving me, kissing me.
These lips that whisper "I love you".
These lips that entitle me as yours.

These eyes,
These eyes that look into my soul.
These eyes that hold promises of tomorrow.
These eyes that are drunk with love, love for me.
These eyes that see me and accept me for who I am.

This heart,
This heart that cares for me.
This heart that would chose me over and over again.
This heart that loves me.
This heart that belongs to me.
©waywardvarsha
Oh the fantasy.
O hope y'all experience a love like this
Stay weird, stay wayward!
Much love xoxo
I'm afraid to write about you.
In the event that you're gone,
you will have been made immortal
within the ink of these pages.

I'm afraid to write about you,
and the way you can caress my
body with your ocean eyes,
sending endless waves through me.

I'm afraid to write about the way
you breathe when you sleep, like
a metronome lullaby, keeping
perfect time with my own breath.

I'm afraid if I were to write about you,
that I'd never be able to rid myself
of your touch, even if I hadn't felt it
but in the dreams that'd haunt me.

Anyone who reads my work will
know you, nameless nonetheless.
I'm afraid to write about you,
but look what I've done.
Somehow I already know
how it ends,
even before it begins.
Call it some type of
clairvoyance.

But you were unexpected;
you weren't part of the plan.

I chased you from the
comfort of the only path I knew,
and now all that I know
is how lost I'd be
without you.
I wanted to be a city,
decorated in winking lights
and lively seas of people.

I wanted to be a home,
warmed by the sunlight,
alive as the garden out back.

Today, I am neither of these.
I am nothing but a vacant
chassis of progression,

where every day a piece
of me builds and then crumbles.
I am content with this.
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