That grey t-shirt you’re wearing is a pale cover of the bending sky that I could finally touch. The way it cuts in like a pie of bodice revealing youthful sternum and toned shoulders, I savor the look. The look that tells me perfection is an arrogant muse that comes out when you surrender to the art of love.
There were unfathomable standards and glaring checklists I had been weaving in the past but didn’t realize it took only a spoonful of immeasurable love and a safe home filled with buttercup kisses to make me walk on the vanilla heavens conjuring every shade of purple Sundays.
You stand there doing absolutely nothing, or probably combing your caramel hair but I am too lost to realize the actions your skillful hands are indulged in like those were, the last (a)musing night. I throw a fit in my mind against the mirror that feels a little more proud reflecting you back because sometimes, it swallows your beauty and let out a sigh of the sight that only I have a right to admire.
You turn around and catch me off-guard. I feign innocence but my acts are almost like those useless hacks we see on the internet, ninety-nine percent of the times they fail. But your demanding eyes breaks down the fort of my seclusion, laughs at my ambitious lower lip that had been cutting itself under the frontal, lazy teeth, the ones that know no other place to bury themselves while gazing at you.
What to do with this manner-less time that doesn’t know how to stop? If I could, I would wager my rest of life for this moment to run in loops. Never knew 2 PMs also could hold a charm one enjoys in an attractive evening, dressed in bold gowns of red ready to take you to the places of creamy dreams.