Zebra print bedsheets, your hands slipping on the satin of my dress, an undramatic sunrise, a mess of unsmoked menthols, a pout that bites and sulks, my hand in your hair, your hand holding my heels, green grass on our side, smudged kajal and a stained heart.
Your voice burns holes in my memory but you see me in still images –stuck- light edged eyes fixed on you, long chocolate legs crossed lazily, black painted nails reaching out for you and a smile that cracks my face in half. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A figment of imagination doesn’t feel, right? You wouldn’t want it any other way.
Your voice burns holes in my memory but you see me in still images –stuck- light edged eyes fixed on you, long chocolate legs crossed lazily, black painted nails reaching out for you and a smile that cracks my face in half. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A figment of imagination doesn’t feel, right? You wouldn’t want it any other way.
So together we’ll live in indecision, indifference and with an incision on our hearts.
Yours deeper, brighter, a slash of what you never had.
Mine, a secret slit.
