She's Everything
She's the kind of girl that you can never stop loving.
She has that kind of eyes, you know? The kind that makes you wish you had known her sooner. The ones that can smother you with love and kill you in just one look. The ones that will gently carry your soul or the ones that will crush everything you've ever known. All with just one look. It's piercing when she knows -- you know -- you are lying about something with her, but it will all be forgiven with just another look that makes you feel grateful that you are alive. You always wish that she will never stop looking at you with sparkles in her eyes.
You will feel like dancing when she finally understands you. How to elicit emotions other than hatred and self-pity. She knows which switch to turn, which ones that will make you tasted red on your lips, or feel songs that never existed before. She knows your crevices and your nooks, and your negative space, and your overflowing undercontained thoughts. She made a nest out of your destructed fortress, complete with four-poster bed, thick mahogany-coloured afghan, and the softest pillow; so you can always rest with her, within her.
She shares parts of her to everyone. Not all at once, not at the same time, as she still keeps some parts of her stay inside, apart from the real world. But, gradually, everything she has to offer will be sent to you even those hidden parts of her that had never come out before, each will be wrapped with silver silk (the same kind that will glide smoothly on her skin and you will forget where the silk starts and where here skin ends). Your fingertips hold power to make her fall apart, and build her back again; you can start listening to her skin hum with her favourite song. And you will notice that everything about her is beautiful.
You never planned any of this. There was something in the past, something you used to turn to when everything went dark. But, she replaced everything you've ever known. She is not what you expected either. She tends to seek the anonymity that metropolitan cities can never offer, yet her proclivity to be paradoxical makes people confused, she often composes illustrative pieces of her emotions that makes her impossible to remain anonymous. Her endless need to grow as a person often gets in the way of her love for being secluded. She needs human interactions in her otherwise pensive existence. In order to feel that plateful range of emotions, she needs to believe that she actually exists by including herself in the complicated interactions.
She is everything to you, as you are to her.
She is everything.
And I can never be her for you.
You will feel like dancing when she finally understands you. How to elicit emotions other than hatred and self-pity. She knows which switch to turn, which ones that will make you tasted red on your lips, or feel songs that never existed before. She knows your crevices and your nooks, and your negative space, and your overflowing undercontained thoughts. She made a nest out of your destructed fortress, complete with four-poster bed, thick mahogany-coloured afghan, and the softest pillow; so you can always rest with her, within her.
She shares parts of her to everyone. Not all at once, not at the same time, as she still keeps some parts of her stay inside, apart from the real world. But, gradually, everything she has to offer will be sent to you even those hidden parts of her that had never come out before, each will be wrapped with silver silk (the same kind that will glide smoothly on her skin and you will forget where the silk starts and where here skin ends). Your fingertips hold power to make her fall apart, and build her back again; you can start listening to her skin hum with her favourite song. And you will notice that everything about her is beautiful.
You never planned any of this. There was something in the past, something you used to turn to when everything went dark. But, she replaced everything you've ever known. She is not what you expected either. She tends to seek the anonymity that metropolitan cities can never offer, yet her proclivity to be paradoxical makes people confused, she often composes illustrative pieces of her emotions that makes her impossible to remain anonymous. Her endless need to grow as a person often gets in the way of her love for being secluded. She needs human interactions in her otherwise pensive existence. In order to feel that plateful range of emotions, she needs to believe that she actually exists by including herself in the complicated interactions.
She is everything to you, as you are to her.
She is everything.
And I can never be her for you.