...tucked behind tendrils of curly hair swiped over peach-colored eyelids hidden between twelve times darker eyelashes—i'm not lying when i say she reads like a song, like a a story book; so familiar i can sink my teeth into her body and carve out a home in the shape of a heart — 

...the lights went out years ago so i see things differently than she does (doesn't make it any less true, though; still gray where it's supposed to be crimson and blue) but her sight and mine are the same; ask her to describe heaven for you and we'll play tunes in unison about the texture of the no-rain clouds 

...there's something about falling in love with your best friend (as a memory) that's just so alluring — things always look prettier from a past perspective, don't they? isn't that why we have all those dumb art museums, brimming with millenniums worth of creations, born by dead fingers? nothing present can ever look too beautiful. something about how real it feels throws everyone off —(i reckon she's never less of a vision in the sunlight, even if i can only love her in the middle of the night)