Stars & freckles

The sprinkle of stars across the sky was an inverse of the scatter of freckles across her nose, her shoulders; as the one constellation grew brighter by night, its echo, too, became more prominent, but in darkening the longer it was exposed to day, to the sun.

The stalks of wheat in the mid-August evening light were an imitation of the strands she kept loosely woven down her back; they whispered and whisked in the wind, dancing like the fair flyaways that framed her face.

The languid blooms of yellow trumpets taking their midday nap were like so many miniatures of her in that saffron sundress, flitting around in the summery warmth, teasing him with twists and turns.

The morning storm clouds, gathering heavy and angry in the damp grey sky, patterned those slate shaded irises of hers; the lightning flashes mirrored the blaze of her gaze, and the nimbus nebulosities spilling their tears replicated her own precipitation.

No, he could not escape her.


I Could Write You A Poem, But I’m Not That Type of Girl

I could ask you if you’re tired
From running through my mind
Or say your lips look lonely
And that they should meet mine
I could pretend to need a band-aid
For my scraped knee from falling for you
I could invent a hypothetical garden
Where I’d put your tulips next to my two
I could call you an alien
Because you abducted my heart
Or accuse you of being a thief
For stealing the very same part
I could pretend to be a librarian
For an excuse to check you out
I could do any of these things
But that’s not what I’m all about
I could tell you that you’re perfect
That you must be Mr. Right
I could even write you a poem,
But I’m really just not the type.