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Cynosure.
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CYNOSURE [si·nuh·zhuor]
a person or thing that is the centre of someone's attention or admiration.
Do not bend my stems, if I were a plant. Instead, let me grow in your loam soil palms, by kissing your wounds on nights you hated hearing your demons near your pillowcases. Let me open your windows, when I visit to let the sunshine in. And by that, I mean let me sleep on your chest as my heart falls in rhythm with yours. All the years have grayed the whites and blacks, when love should ever only be kindness and being present. Nowadays, you get origamed affections with hurriedly presented bouquets as love gestures. When, in all honesty, I'd rather eat your burnt cupcakes in the kitchen floor knowing full well, you could never bake. I'd take all of your dismantled puppet strings, huddle it upon my small ribcage and exhale my warm breaths on it to keep it warm. And by that I mean, I will kiss you the hardest on days I know you feel the most unloved and earnestly tired from feeling inadequate. I shall answer all your tears with my embraces and dance with you even without music. I shall fill any room or space with your laughter, and you can fill it with my joyous glee and sweet surrenderance. I shall let you grow soft blooms upon my garden, we shall watch what becomes of it as we wrinkle and gray in our own little greenhouse of life. I am writing this, for you. Whoever you are, from all of me, to the tip of my pen and the entirety of my fragile bones and feminine wiles—
I am yours.
~~~~°~~~~
CYNOSURE [si·nuh·zhuor]
a person or thing that is the centre of someone's attention or admiration.
Do not bend my stems, if I were a plant. Instead, let me grow in your loam soil palms, by kissing your wounds on nights you hated hearing your demons near your pillowcases. Let me open your windows, when I visit to let the sunshine in. And by that, I mean let me sleep on your chest as my heart falls in rhythm with yours. All the years have grayed the whites and blacks, when love should ever only be kindness and being present. Nowadays, you get origamed affections with hurriedly presented bouquets as love gestures. When, in all honesty, I'd rather eat your burnt cupcakes in the kitchen floor knowing full well, you could never bake. I'd take all of your dismantled puppet strings, huddle it upon my small ribcage and exhale my warm breaths on it to keep it warm. And by that I mean, I will kiss you the hardest on days I know you feel the most unloved and earnestly tired from feeling inadequate. I shall answer all your tears with my embraces and dance with you even without music. I shall fill any room or space with your laughter, and you can fill it with my joyous glee and sweet surrenderance. I shall let you grow soft blooms upon my garden, we shall watch what becomes of it as we wrinkle and gray in our own little greenhouse of life. I am writing this, for you. Whoever you are, from all of me, to the tip of my pen and the entirety of my fragile bones and feminine wiles—
I am yours.
~~~~°~~~~
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