The kisses of the most censored palette
hide inside leather-bound novels,
as a wandering finger traces the stubble
of the finely printed words;
lips quiver in a rapid endeavor
to stop the stampeding of the heart
in the backlogs of the library,
(oh, if they dared hear!)
before stolen again by the lover
with the tall spine, the breadth of
shoulder, and whispered words
of longing as his pages caress in between
her tender, lingering fingers.
The passion draws blood, slicing
the index, slipping secretly in
between a crease
and another.
(Paper cut,Aki)
The love they wrote in novels about, whatever form they may come in.
So brilliant they say,yet so complex because chances of getting pure true love,
Is like digging for a needle amidst the pile of wooden sticks. Intangible that it blows away minds.
That is why they wrote novels about it, to remember it exists, otherwise we'd all forget it in disbelief.
That is why they wrote novels about it, to remember it exists, otherwise we'd all forget it in disbelief.
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School's fine...i think.
