We held hands, again

On the very first day, You told me I was magic,
I laughed rather shyly because so were you,
and even though your eyelashes were long enough to touch my cheeks, when we were close enough,
You still kept your eyes shut, for you already tasted all the fear on my tongue.
We were soaked in aesthetic pleasure and the scent of wine, and so I stole some of the delectable cologne you were wearing and kept it into my pocket. We held hands.

After some days of the very first day, you told me I was an ocean,
I agreed, and told you not to drown,
and even though you were shedding sweet words with a fluency which warned me of the practice you have had, You still said my name, like no one, ever had before, I was either a fool or someone who witnessed a poem with no words being created that night.
We found the box of Eros for us to stay for the eternity, and so I painted little windows and a rooftop using all the colours from your eyes, to see the stars in the night. Our fingers made love.

After a few weeks of the very first day, I told you we were stardust,
It was the most poetic thing I could have learnt from science,
and even though our fingernails knew each other, skin by skin, I kept my eyes open to watch you in wonder for days, for I couldn’t place the exact sapid spell that you must have used.
We spoke beautiful sonnets with our eyes, and so I wrote little tales on the leaves that were floating aimlessly through the windows and asked them to return. You spill wine on my dress.

After some time of us living in our box, you told me I was a painting,
I found myself staring back at me from a canvas,
and even though you used all your expensive oils in the horrid work, by which I’m trying to say that you were no Picasso, you still managed to give the exact shade of blush on my cheekbones, for you used your fingertips as the brush.
We kept our eyes closed, hands stretched out and hearts open, and so I sang all my favourite songs and whispered their meaning into your ears, to see if it tickles you. We danced on the table.

After many moons of us living in our box, you told me you were lost,
I couldn’t understand what you meant,
and even though you started painting beautifully, with the kind of genius I could never touch,
you still couldn’t do justice with the colours, for you knew you were painting dead flowers anyway.
We glanced at each other time to time and didn’t understand what was happening, and so I painted a new room for me to read my books, and found new stories alone. You painted more dead flowers.

After the perfect eternity of us living in our box, you stopped telling me things,
I stopped asking you question too,
and even though you kept painting about the things I used to write poems about,
you still painted dead flowers behind them, for I never told you how I hated them.
We stopped meeting each other on our own accord, and so I stopped writing our stories on paper, bed-sheets and new leaves that float by, they never returned anyway. I threw away the dress with the wine stain.

After I left our box of Eros, you called me with my last name,
I didn’t mind at all,
and even though you ran out of oil paints and didn’t bother to get new ones,
you still painted something using watercolours, real dead flowers, and even kitchen oil.
We were just a few moons away from forgetting the sonnets we once claimed ours, and so I visited once or twice to find our stories from our beds, but they never tumbled out. I bought a bike.

After a few years, you were utterly confused,
I never liked bicycling, but I did anyway,
and even though you sold some of your paintings, to buy oil paints and make new ones,
you still couldn’t understand why the leaves came floating inside from the window with written words on them, for they made no sense, but kept telling you they were asked to stop by.
We made new stories, but forget about the ocean and the stardust, and so I traced back all my paths to find the box of Eros, and I found it one day. I smelled familiar cologne.

I asked if you knew who I was, and you asked if I remembered who you were,
but nothing mattered anymore.

And on the very first day, you told me I was magic,
I laughed, but disagreed, because I wasn’t,
And though your eyelashes were long enough to touch my cheeks, when we were close enough,
You still kept your eyes shut, for you already tasted all the fear on my tongue.
We were soaked in aesthetic pleasure and the scent of wine, and so I stole some of the delectable cologne you were wearing and kept it into my pocket. We held hands, again.childhood-love-couple-wallpaper-768x432

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