In the eyes of The Moon..

A flat marble,
Imperfect white shades
Mirroring the sky
Or was it reflecting the ocean?
So close it seemed
But didn’t dare reach out;
Afraid to ruin the scenery
For the rest of the world out there
Wish I admired it a bit longer
I might have noticed
The dark edges
And empty freckles
The reflection of which ocean
Or on which sky it laid on.
But I have admired It enough
To hold hope for another day
Where I’ll meet the oceans
In the eyes of The Moon

There, that twitch of a smile

There
That twitch of a smile.
When you remember those times
Of pure stupidity and foolishness of the past.
The kind of past that when mixed with the present
It urges you to hope
Rather than haunt you to misery
A history that you still have diaries about
That you couldn’t even burn their existence
Reminding you of some of the idiotic and childish mistakes,
That you’ll be protecting your kids from
The kind of mistakes that you spent hours laughing about yourself
After just reading the first page.
There it is again..
That twitch of a smile.
That reminded you of the sound of his laugh,
How it paired up perfectly with the opening of his mouth,
Showing his imperfect teeth,
That you just loved regardless.
That reminded you of his droopy eyes and full cheeks,
As they meet each other with that grin of his.
That reminded you of his smart ass attitude
That bad boy persona and dirty talk.
Yeah, always had a thing for trouble..
And there it goes again.
That twitch of a smile.

Whenever she tries to breath..

Clenching the hems of her sweater as her breathing slowed down with the suffocating feeling that whatever is choking her airways is also blocking everything down to her stomach. 
Thinking about nothing but the pain that tingled through her trunk, centring at the upper left. 
Hearing the pounding of her heart against her chest, rhythmic, steady.. Now uneven, shaky, and.. halting.

Soul..

She could almost swear it was clear as glass how his soul protested as it left his body.
Was it expressing pain and agony for being attached to this simple body?
Was it being punished?
She did not know.
But she did know this much..
That it was the soul that felt.. Pain or happiness.
The soul that hosted this body.
The soul was what you referred to.. As dead or alive.
The body is what you referred to as ‘it‘, not the soul.
The soul is the master.
The body is the companion.
There is no living body without a soul.

His sweater.

“Tomorrow’s a bit windy”, he said, “don’t wear something warm”, looking at her with a grin.
“I’ll be too cold, you know how whiney I can get with the cold”, she responded.
“No you won’t, i’ll take care of that”

Next day, he went to meet her and saw her hair dancing, sending warm prickles to his cheeks. He snuck behind her, stretched the end of his sweater and trapped her inside.
“Snuggle in, angel. One sweater is enough, don’t you think?”
Her arms found their way through his sleeves, and he held her closely, burying his head in her neck, smelling fresh watermelon.
I love you – he thought, but he couldn’t say it out loud because he felt more than that.. More than love could describe.
“I love you more than love itself”, she said, as if she read his mind.

Awake or Asleep..

I lay back, close my eyes, and float in the rhythm of my dreams..
And when once my dreams were an escape from reality..
Reality has come to haunt me to my bed,
As it has graved itself at the core of my subconscious.
Now I cannot tell between being awake or asleep..
The pain feels the same in both worlds..
The guilt tastes sour, choking me.
There is no relief, but heightened stress..
Drowning by my own misery, my own history.
Is there a writer out there..
Who could rewrite my yesterdays
And glamour them with sugar-coated lies?
Maybe I could be manipulated that all these dreams and reality
Are the stories of a character in a book..
A sad old dusty book.
That has nothing to do with me.
That I’m just a reader of my story.