english girls are pretty when they play guitar
I imagine the gentle breeze as it winds it trail through the delicate strands of my hair, and then to yours, dancing, and placidly lifting a flyaway thread from your cheek. And there is silence.
I watch the inky black ocean stretch out like an endless darkness the colour of tar, and remember stories of seagulls, black as crows, plucked from the oily seas after a spillage. Beady eyes and dark, awkward wings clumped with sludge.
Your eyes are two dark, inked pools and they bore into mine, searching my fragile body for clues, scars and marks- evidence.
Along the coast the wind picks up. I hug my chest and shoulders, hungry for warmth. My arms ache to grasp the bold contours of another landscape, to map a new territory, and to know the rises, falls, and favourite places,
But not tonight.
I watch the inky black ocean stretch out like an endless darkness the colour of tar, and remember stories of seagulls, black as crows, plucked from the oily seas after a spillage. Beady eyes and dark, awkward wings clumped with sludge.
Your eyes are two dark, inked pools and they bore into mine, searching my fragile body for clues, scars and marks- evidence.
Along the coast the wind picks up. I hug my chest and shoulders, hungry for warmth. My arms ache to grasp the bold contours of another landscape, to map a new territory, and to know the rises, falls, and favourite places,
But not tonight.