Fairy-tale love.

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“Someday you”ll be old enough to start reading fairy-tales again.” – C.S. Lewis

He was real. She didn’t think he would be.
The first time he laughed,
it was like fireworks in the night sky.
She could look at him and
see all the hues of emotions that colored his skin
as his lips curled from one end to another.
She could hear the waterfalls crashing hard against the broken stones
as he giggled like a child who’d just found a new toy.
She felt his chuckle spread warmth to her cheeks and
the corner of her eyes creased
like the white shirt he was wearing.
It was beautiful.
He was beautiful.

He always kept his word.
He made the chocolate chip cookies he had promised on a Sunday morning,
and he stayed while I cried at 3:04 am.
He expressed himself with a tint of mystery,
but with no boring exaggeration.
He wrote me letters,
on tiny post-its
The words he wrote, are probably what my favorite novel holds.
He made me breakfast,
And took me out on dates.
He had the exotic manners
of a fuckboy,
and the raw sexuality
of one, too.
But he had the intentions of a wallflower,
the introvert with faith rimmed spectacles,
and a love stained tee.

He could cook my favorite Madeleines.
He could dance,
And spin me around in circles till I fall into his arms,
As he picks me up and we make out,
On the way to bed.
I knew he was my fairy-tale love,
When we grabbed me by the waist,
pushed me against a wall, and held my hands above my head,
Looked me in the eye till I couldn’t just look anymore,
I kissed him for the first time.
And my foot just pops up.


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Related post : Cinderella’s shoes.

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Midnight. 

It’s late, and I’m still thinking about you.

​”I am addicted.
She is my bottle of vodka.
She is my cookie crumbs.
She is the eighth colour of my rainbow.
The colour that’s everywhere,
Except inside the rainbow.
She is my three A.M.
The three A.M. pain I write about,
And the three A.M. calls I don’t make.
She is my happy ever after.
The happy ever after in a fairytale,
In those tales for my three A.M. kid,
In those stories for my four A.M. demons,
In those lullabies for my five A.M. drowsy eyes.
She is my sushi.
She is my ‘one eyelash – one wish’.
She is my 11:11 ‘Wish, please come true’.
She is my cigarette.
Here’s the fucking problem.
I’m addicted.
And she’s my nicotine patch.”


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Related post : How often do you think about me?

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Kiss me slow.

This is how you should kiss her every time.


“Kiss her. Slowly, take your time, there’s no place you’d rather be. Kiss her but not like you’re waiting for something else, like your hands beneath her shirt or her skirt or tangled up in her bra straps. Nothing like that. Kiss her like you’ve forgotten any other mouth that your mouth has ever touched. Kiss her with a curious childish delight. Laugh into her mouth, inhale her sighs. Kiss her until she moans. Kiss her with her face in your hands. Or your hands in her hair. Or pulling her closer at the waist. Kiss her like you want to take her dancing. Like you want to spin her into an open arena and watch her look at you like you’re the brightest thing she’s ever seen. Kiss her like she’s the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. Take your time. Kiss her like the first and only piece of chocolate you’re ever going to taste. Kiss her until she forgets how to count. Kiss her stupid. Kiss her silent. Come away, ask her what 2+2 is and listen to her say your name in answer.” – Unknown (Instagram handle : Ofwhisperedwords)


Previous post : Always?
Related post : Damn, your eyes.

Friends, if you like reading my work, do share it with your friends (on whatever social media you deem appropriate). It would be amazing to have more people reading my compositions. Please help my infinity grow bigger ∞