Mascara

She found that her mascara had now been worn down on her rosy cheeks. It’s true that she’d still been in love with the past. The glimmer of what was still anchors her from moving towards a future that is brighter.

your song

Your song, which I can only imagine would sound like an open flowerbed in the dusk of summer. The kind you’d often find yourself frolicking in where the air is clean and the petals stretch multiple miles, far outside the reach of vision.

Your song sounds what a tropical forest smells and some odd way taste like, with all its fruit and rainwater bliss. The kind that is rich and flavorful. Wildlife and all.

Your song, to me, is what I’d often catch myself playing on repeat to the end of all my days; a wonderful tune.