His eyes charmed me. He was not a word person, he always asked what I meant by charmed. There’s something alluring about seeing novels, short stories and bibles behind eyes that don’t translate through their owners lips. Like an undiscovered island that you’re certain holds a treasure for you but you have to dig deep and hard to reach it.
I fear for myself, that one day my words will start a revolt and become outrageous, and I also hope they actually do. Some truths require a slow bleed and the way I’ve been bleeding out I’m probably the truest thing alive.
We’ve talked, he and I, about me being wild and worse, and much more. It strikes me critically that this minimal wordy man can see straight through me and communicate a thing so profound in poetic form without even knowing his genius.
For all intents and purposes I’m reserved and complacent at all times. The tempest beneath should be shrouded in decorum yet my wild is sweaty and seepy to his piercing island eyes. Remind me of me, please always remind me of me so I don’t fade away. I might die of grace
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