"you'll be okay" she said and smiled through her eyes, it's the kind that makes you smile back, if not tad wider, showing teeth.
to Vaishnavi || of cherry blossoms and verses
you walked alongside me through the fall, cold winter days, spring and summer, sang to me, of your poetry. and talked to me about what the other hemisphere is like, if the moon happens to sleep after rocking every one with a lullaby. I could still feel the tenderness with which you would touch those daisies growing in wild. you're the shore I'd always return to, for you'd say that I'll be okay and smile at me.
I haven't had a person to truly love, since the year of '19, and, I haven't had a pat on the back, or, a repost, for writing my letters down, and putting them up for the auction of most reports. this sewer of creatures who pride themselves on being poets; of course, they are poets, as long as, it is safe to say that Donald Trump was an universally loved president for the States.
now, these rodents, they are broadly divided into two categories — one : John Green enthusiasts, the ones to get off at flowers, or, hot-chocolate jars, for that matter. two : the kind of lowlifes who would gamble their mother's savings, just to see Haruki Murakami sodomise Kafka, who was apparently, sitting on the shore.
so, the next time I hear about John Green's hot jerk-off challenge in Alaska, or, about Murakami and his slushy kitten-shaped sex-toys, it's going to be either me, or, you, in the end with a slit throat.