APRIL 30, 2016
The crease fissured on your fingers are almost the same homemomorphic contour lines of mountains. Every details of you is a force of nature, each one tastes vivid under my tongue. The pink of your tongue merging with early morning sky over driplets of Sun as I carry thoughts, heavier than lead, imagining you. A thoughtless storm, a beauty of infinite in your eyes but you can't never see those things in the mirror.
I want to tell you millions of things and recite you millions of poems, some of them being that your eyes are similar to coffee with little potion of cream stirred, taffy and caffeinated with sleep debt.
I really like to romanticize your eyes due to the fact I consume two cups of coffee everytime I wake up at three and got addicted since I was 15. Your eyes are the same. Brown. Deep. Addictive. Keep me awake in some ways. Leaves a bitter aftertaste. Spills.
To be quite honest, the complexity of the hue of your eyes are much more than liquid caffeine. They are more like the light sky during midnight. The kind of sky that shows it's still up at 2.00 a.m. because you can see the silhouette of the palm trees against the skin tone of the sky. It's not black sky nor it is orange. It's perfectly brown with freckles of opal. Spectrums of stars so prominent but the brown hue isn't affected.
That's what your pupils are like to me.
A midnight daydream.
Then there are night skies that are devoid of entity. Black so deep you're not sure if the world ended. It resembles the colour of your hair. I wish I can touch but the sky is unreachable.
