Her lips were like a latte sweet foam and cinnamon like a new book, pages crisp and new, sticky fingers lightly caressing Her cheeks, tinting Them rose and as her eyelashes fan out against her face, I can see my future, wrapped in those latte lips.
How does one find a garden untouched, no flowers plucked, by lonely children? no plant left unwatered by the sky? No human skin slowly melting the wings of a new born butterfly. A place that is so ethereal that in my mind i cannot even picture it, when I am able to picture my own downfall.
i feel like i belong inside my notebook, i feel like its the only place that holds me safe instead of hostage. i feel the black inked letters gently caress me and lull me to sleep. and there is a moment, right before my mind goes blank, that i feel like i have a place where i belong, where i can lead my own rebellion against my mind.