And he was like no other, he had watermelon cheeks from the paradise written upon his skin. The worlds flowed from his lips into the room as if he was born with Gods vocabulary. He looked at me, he observed me as if I was a formula he needed to remember. When I looked back he didn’t flinch, the world was upon his feet and he’d never be bothered. He tucked his hair behind his ear with his porcelain hands. Hands who held pencils for hours to draw lines with the perfection of ice crystals. With the policy of polite placement he filled all the grooves with the black pencil he held, he held it in his porcelain hands. They were easy to break, he was easy to break, never socialize with the gracious, they will put the magenta in your eyes and their art in your heart.
Published by Josephine
Semi-personal blog. Dutch and English poetry and stories that document my life. Sincerely believes in writing as a form of therapy. View all posts by Josephine