I guess you have to pull yourself apart to figure out who you really are.
Pick and turn those puzzle pieces, not knowing what goes where.
And every piece has your name written on it, like you own every piece of me.
Funny how this was intended to be written about me, but it took a turn to you. Once again.
You and those wide beautiful eyes of yours.
You and those one and a half dimples of yours.
You and those beautiful lips of yours.
And i cant wait to taste every inch of them.
I cant wait to finally set my hands free to explore you.
No constraining for once, whenever you’re around me.
I cant wait to feel your skin and linger there instead of making a silly excuse to shake your hand just to feel you.
13 poems were born because of you.
And this is only the beginning.
For you deserve a hundred more to describe every little thing about your beautiful soul.
A hundred and forty two, for every shade of brown in those beautiful eyes of yours.
Two hundred and six more for every bone in your perfect little body.
Every single letter that leaves those sweet, sweet lips of yours transform into a rope and ties every inch of my body pulling me closer to you.
And with every word you say, i fall even more.
The greatest work of art.
The work of art that I must have, to admire day and night.
The work of art that no con artist can ever perfect.
It would take me years to decode the codes under your skin.
And I know i’d take my time tracing them on your skin.
They would write books about you.
They would write songs about your beauty.
They would make movies about you but no one can fit your role.
The perfect role,
Of a perfect work of art.