You hold your paint brushes
like a heart holds a soul.
Each fine hair on the handle
somehow makes you whole.
Green and yellow and blue and grey
your name stretches across my lips like a two-syllable Irish dancer
And wiggles between my teeth.
your name splatters upon every canvas,
in the ashes of every ashtray.
Can I see the insides of your soul?
A black coffee and a mocha with whipped cream.
I asked for chocolate sprinkles
to match the freckles on your nose.
You make me feel like coffee tastes.
like wiggling toes
and hand-me-down clothes.
can I see the insides of your soul?
Gazing at your face directly in the sun
may be the best thing that I’ve ever done,
because your watermelon wedge smile
makes my body tingle.
makes my heart concave
and I thought I was brave
until you made me stand on stilts.
the hopeless romantic has hope.
may the mystery of your soul be a legend-
finger cuts and hand soap.
I’ll pack away your supplies,
whilst packing away mine:
your paint brushes and my storyline.
You won’t answer,
so ill play our song.
and you won’t respond.
And I’ll hope that the next time my heart runs away with me,
there will be someone willing to come along.
As I’ve grown up, I’ve realised no one is going to do the fighting for you. You have to pull yourself up off the ground no matter what it takes or how many times you trip and fall. You have to be your own friend when the world becomes dark and lonely and cold. Because only you can make yourself survive. Only you can make yourself feel something and only you can mend your broken soul each time someone smashes it to pieces right before your eyes,
“Don’t fall in love with him,” her brain murmured.
“I want to,” said her heart, longingly.
“He’ll ruin you.”
There was a hesitant pause and then a hushed whisper. “I don’t care.”
Her brain gave a resigned sigh, for it knew that even the smartest of souls could not deny love.
It was the one thing logic could not triumph.