genuine and unprepared.
So. I have a tattoo now =].
I decided to get it on my wrist because I want to always be able to look at it and remind myself of what I'm working for. It's gorgeous, and I love it. Of course, now I'm sort of addicted and I can't wait to go get some more.
Unrelatedly, Gunner has decided that he might still have feelings for me. My brain is dizzy.
And I wrote this:
this sky is littered with cotton-ball clouds,
warm like an oil-painting. beautiful and blurred.
softened edges, laden with flaws as though
God had a shaky hand, was short on a
deadline, rushed. and you imagine yourself
with all the colors of perfection splattered
along your fingertips. a brush constructed
from angels' wings and you feel like infinity
to me; so unreachable, so unreadable. I
watch with sunken eyes as that brush of
yours skims along the canvas in front of you,
thick, bold strokes of primary colors that
blend to accurately describe this mess that
we have become. you see me with an
honesty that I could never understand, paint
my face in shades of yellow while I write to
you in clipped verses and uneven lines. this
is a sign that we are both missing, a way of
life that we have stopped believing in but this
time, I want nothing more than for it to be
enough that we are both the last of our kind.
*sigh*.
ily, Shan.
I decided to get it on my wrist because I want to always be able to look at it and remind myself of what I'm working for. It's gorgeous, and I love it. Of course, now I'm sort of addicted and I can't wait to go get some more.
Unrelatedly, Gunner has decided that he might still have feelings for me. My brain is dizzy.
And I wrote this:
this sky is littered with cotton-ball clouds,
warm like an oil-painting. beautiful and blurred.
softened edges, laden with flaws as though
God had a shaky hand, was short on a
deadline, rushed. and you imagine yourself
with all the colors of perfection splattered
along your fingertips. a brush constructed
from angels' wings and you feel like infinity
to me; so unreachable, so unreadable. I
watch with sunken eyes as that brush of
yours skims along the canvas in front of you,
thick, bold strokes of primary colors that
blend to accurately describe this mess that
we have become. you see me with an
honesty that I could never understand, paint
my face in shades of yellow while I write to
you in clipped verses and uneven lines. this
is a sign that we are both missing, a way of
life that we have stopped believing in but this
time, I want nothing more than for it to be
enough that we are both the last of our kind.
*sigh*.
ily, Shan.