(no subject)
So perfect.
So perfectly imperfect.
The skin on the palm of your hand is like nothing I've ever touched before. It's not like that of my grandmother, whose hands felt like paper when I held them. It's not like any fabric, even the softest, smoothest silk, for no man could ever manufacture something as elegant. The only thing I can compare it to is the small of your back. Equally smooth. Equally soft.because nothing has ever given me more comfort. To hold you. Flawless. The small scars on your back . Storytellers. Your body is a book, and each cell is a page I can't wait to read, and love, and kiss. And I could cherish you. And I think that I do. Your skin. Your skin. Your skin. Resplendent. And every moment I am with you, my eyes are transfixed on some part of you. Admiring. Studying. Reading. And I get lost in those small strands of yellow that decorate your iris. Lost in the small crevices in your lips. And I want to hide myself inside them. Live within your lips. Envelop myself in the softest kiss. And I'd crawl into your mind, navigating through the caverns of your memory. And into then into your ears, where I will speak to you the only language I know: Love. And you will release me from your body in a shaking fit of pleasure and happiness. And you will love me back. And I will kiss every inch of you. And you will love me back. And as your eyes grow heavy with exhaustion, you will put your ear up to my heart and hear how much I love you. And I will shower you in honest compliments. And wrap you up in always. And I will press my chest against your back, and kiss your shoulders as you drift off to sleep. And you won't dream. Because our life together is a dream come true. Your mind needs no vacation. Because I love you. Your flaws are not flaws. They are the charm that ties your heart to mine.
So perfect.
So perfectly imperfect.
So perfectly imperfect.
The skin on the palm of your hand is like nothing I've ever touched before. It's not like that of my grandmother, whose hands felt like paper when I held them. It's not like any fabric, even the softest, smoothest silk, for no man could ever manufacture something as elegant. The only thing I can compare it to is the small of your back. Equally smooth. Equally soft.because nothing has ever given me more comfort. To hold you. Flawless. The small scars on your back . Storytellers. Your body is a book, and each cell is a page I can't wait to read, and love, and kiss. And I could cherish you. And I think that I do. Your skin. Your skin. Your skin. Resplendent. And every moment I am with you, my eyes are transfixed on some part of you. Admiring. Studying. Reading. And I get lost in those small strands of yellow that decorate your iris. Lost in the small crevices in your lips. And I want to hide myself inside them. Live within your lips. Envelop myself in the softest kiss. And I'd crawl into your mind, navigating through the caverns of your memory. And into then into your ears, where I will speak to you the only language I know: Love. And you will release me from your body in a shaking fit of pleasure and happiness. And you will love me back. And I will kiss every inch of you. And you will love me back. And as your eyes grow heavy with exhaustion, you will put your ear up to my heart and hear how much I love you. And I will shower you in honest compliments. And wrap you up in always. And I will press my chest against your back, and kiss your shoulders as you drift off to sleep. And you won't dream. Because our life together is a dream come true. Your mind needs no vacation. Because I love you. Your flaws are not flaws. They are the charm that ties your heart to mine.
So perfect.
So perfectly imperfect.