She is the color of dusk,
Just before it begins to rain.
A shade of orange
From the setting sun,
A pinch of yellow,
From the street lamps,
A sprinkle of red,
From the pregnant clouds.
There is a name for that color,
It’s called beautiful.
She is the sound of a butterfly flutter,
A wonder you would have to see to believe,
Her swaying lips leave a hurricane
raging half way across my soul.
Running through parts of me
I thought were long dead and decayed.
There is a metaphor I know for this,
It’s just called insanity.
She is the aroma of rain on a desert rock.
The smell of earth with enough traces of sandalwood for the bees,
Mixed with the pocket of air from spring’s first bloom.
I close my eyes and inhale like a diver taking his last breath,
Knowing this intoxication would only drown me a little deeper.
The mortals have a term for this scent,
It’s called the incense of the Gods.
Have you ever felt the mildest of the winds that kisses the back of your neck?
When the love of your life walks right past behind you?
When the skin behind your knees erupt with goosebumps?
When for a second your brain stammers and your whole body sits still like a hand drawn portrait?
I am yet to find for this the most simple of analogies,
I’m sure none of the languages have one.
She is the shape of my broken guitar, of an angel’s wing,
Of a violin that plays the notes to haunt a God king.
She has the curves of rainbows, of the clouds, of rain bubbles, of my first water bottle
But yet the only curve I fall for,
Is the one on her lip, the first time,
to this day, every time
She says my name.
So there was that day, I looked into your eyes
And you looked into mine
With words that can breakdown and cry
I asked “My love, would you be mine?”