cobwebs.
It has been ages; many moons we have seen. Many colors and shapes surrounding my skin, brushing my hair, painting my irises into kaleidoscopes. And yet, through the energies and seasons, the heartaches and unreasons, he has still been there. He still pollinates my sheets with the perfume of his scent. He is impulsive and wild like the wind. I set the war paint on my skin, masking my pallid palate, creating new identities with mascara and powders, until I heard the knocking upon my door. He stood there, ill with a cold, crawling up towards my bedroom, telling me to find a dress because he was taking me out to dinner. His chariot is black and familiar, the music set to my favorite songs. I am in love and I will always be.
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
likeatart) wrote,
