SLAIN. 

  
Dear you,

I love that fact that you are always writing. I love writing and it just got better that I do not have to explain my feelings in speech even when I talk a lot, i express myself better in ink.

I feel like I know you already that even when I am left alone in the cathedral abbey I would smell you from a far and stay convinced that you would never leave. I trust you even though I do not know you and that’s all I ever want to know. The memories of you I desire to keep are in ink but I have engraved them at the left of my chest because that’s the only way I ever want to know you. Sweet,romantic, simple and Godly.

Last year I picked up my paint brushes and painted a picture of me torn. It sold out before I could wake up so hesitantly I picked up my ink and paper and lazily sat on my bed and started to pen down the dreams I had killed. The glory that once shinned upon me was like half open blinds, my submission dropping down and cleansing the ink that I attempted to redesign and then you came like a crowd of rain over a desert.

Last night when I held your hand, nothing ever felt that beautiful in a while. I was finally home after a long while of being prodigal. Like a stranger in my own skin my stomach laughed. I found my self taken in the embrace of your love.

Forever, 

L.

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7 thoughts on “SLAIN. 

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