Him: Perfection in a glass globe

She flung her foot on the table and peeled up her black mesh stockings. She looked at him under the misty lights with moist red lips, and casted her eyes down at him. He wished he could run his fingers through her soft blonde hair strands, but he was sitting down on the chair and

Your eyes by the window

Your eyes like window light through glass your skin; either blushed or heated or darkened by the sun your smile, says it all by staying bitter or hopeful your hands, rule me like they know where to guide your torso; to rest on for music to play on

Glass

Waste of an eyesight

Can’t look at anyone else in the eyes. It’s too glazed, clear, and open. Don’t want to look into them when there’s nothing else they have to show. It’s such a waste of an eyesight. Can’t look at anyone else’s, but yours. Glassy; entwined in something Distant but so near The way it changes in

Friday night bad boy

It’s a dry, dull, desolate world where we live. We’re made of thick glass, fragile enough to be broken, and oh so heavy; bound by gravity and layers of weight covering our bodies. You’re like music to me. You’re so vibrant, tangible, and full of bright pastel colors. Your smile pops open and fizzles out

Sky Milk