Rhyme and Rythm

Messy hair and broken smile, that’s how I remember seeing him for the first time. His habit of always trying to be a superhero never went away. It still puts him in trouble at times. I always thought that he was an egoistic guy who always puts his nose in other’s business but as he etched a little closer and my hands touched his dark, ebony hair, as his radiating warmth touched me, I saw the broken soul he was hiding by acting like iron man. His poetry was complicated. Without any rhyme and rythm, it went on, making me drown a little deeper. It wasn’t a beautiful, jolly poetry about the breeze and autumn leaves but they were about the broken glasses and smell of ciggarettes. The darkness in his words seem to consume me but I came back to my senses when I realized that I wasn’t the lean, tall girl with coffee coloured eyes that always reminded him of rainbows and the colourless sketches, all at the same time. My eyes were green, much different from the girl in his poetry who had rosy lips and looked good in her messy bun. Messy hair and broken smile, they were enough to dilate my pupils and hear the lub dub sound of my heart a little louder. I still read his poetries at night, hoping that one day they would contain a green eyed girl with her long hair waving in the air, reminding him of the happiness he found when he used to sail those paperboats as a child and looked at the twinling stars, dreaming and hoping to touch the unlimited sky.

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