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Description
I smell his smile from fifty feet away, the way you can smell the flesh decaying off a dying breed.  A smile smells so sweet like summertime, and his tastes like insanity. Lips are parted in such a manner that I feel its very breath leaking onto the paper, molding itself to the canvas in an arc.  And as the straight line forms into a curve upwards, I am left to wonder about its ever-changing form.  Stationary, it is pink and masculine, and it pouts in a way only someone like James Dean could understand. White pearls slide underneath, moving the mountains in their attempt to feel the sunshine as it passes into a rainstorm. The folds fold into themselves, into the shelf, where they come to rest.  They sit, masterfully waiting for another sweet embrace.

The fingertips are bleeding into my soul, feeling their way into the softer side of the center of myself.  They wrap around my ego and feel into my insecurities.  The arms grow longer to hold onto, to wrap myself inside of.  I feel strength and gather knowledge of a softer way, a softer day.  I used to lack the innocence to know the way it went and now I know it only goes the way I want.  I’ll collect myself into his fingertips if they promise to always stay this way, to graze that way across my inner conscious.

Words are whispers shredded inside the ear, no one can hear them here but me.  I break free from myself in these moments, tumbling into something greater than imagination.  Did they fumble because they were jumbled in his mind, on his lips?  Another kiss please.  I can still smell his smile.  Stretching across the ocean like it rides the current and breaks the waves.  It rushes into shore beside the fog, canvassing the area and filling noses with its fragrance.

If this is what happens when you kiss me, then you may always be the one to hold my hand.  And lover, smile just once more…

Description
I smell his smile from fifty feet away, the way you can smell the flesh decaying off a dying breed.  A smile smells so sweet like summertime, and his tastes like insanity. Lips are parted in such a manner that I feel its very breath leaking onto the paper, molding itself to the canvas in an arc.  And as the straight line forms into a curve upwards, I am left to wonder about its ever-changing form.  Stationary, it is pink and masculine, and it pouts in a way only someone like James Dean could understand. White pearls slide underneath, moving the mountains in their attempt to feel the sunshine as it passes into a rainstorm. The folds fold into themselves, into the shelf, where they come to rest.  They sit, masterfully waiting for another sweet embrace.

The fingertips are bleeding into my soul, feeling their way into the softer side of the center of myself.  They wrap around my ego and feel into my insecurities.  The arms grow longer to hold onto, to wrap myself inside of.  I feel strength and gather knowledge of a softer way, a softer day.  I used to lack the innocence to know the way it went and now I know it only goes the way I want.  I’ll collect myself into his fingertips if they promise to always stay this way, to graze that way across my inner conscious.

Words are whispers shredded inside the ear, no one can hear them here but me.  I break free from myself in these moments, tumbling into something greater than imagination.  Did they fumble because they were jumbled in his mind, on his lips?  Another kiss please.  I can still smell his smile.  Stretching across the ocean like it rides the current and breaks the waves.  It rushes into shore beside the fog, canvassing the area and filling noses with its fragrance.

If this is what happens when you kiss me, then you may always be the one to hold my hand.  And lover, smile just once more…