• opia__ 9w


    On the best of days,
    You resemble two fistfuls
    Of fluttering fingers,
    Twisting and collapsing,
    In a light and sound show of emotions;
    Infinite thumb prints in infinite colours -
    Staining an unclaimed wall,
    Featuring an infinite others.

    On the best of days,
    You stink of glorious desire -
    Desire for an intangible entity;
    Desire for nothing and everything;
    An adoration for infinite possibilities;
    Congruently inconsistent,
    And consistently intoxicating.

    On the best of days,
    You taste a lot like
    Fire sustaining life -
    A decadence unwittingly unlocked;
    Unconvincingly mild,
    And emphatically restrained;
    With a taste for café noir,
    And love for sweet tea.

    On the best of days,
    You sound a lot
    Like a symphony made out of
    Carelessly pushed out staccatos;
    A legato made out of,
    Effortlessly perfect vibratos;
    An opus in the making,
    With no concern
    For the artist's wherewithal.

    On the best of days,
    Your familiar touch
    Feels like a foreign force;
    An intrepid foot seeking a novel shoe,
    Eager feet stumbling and straightening,
    On heels standing two inches too tall;
    An undiscovered track unravelling,
    Content to be leading nowhere at all.