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I can’t describe the sound of her voice
The music in her lungs
Or the rose pedals in her walk

But I imagine that her words
Are like fig leaves
That dance to the sound of opinions that refuse to be silenced
The conviction in her sentences
Can make an ocean question beauty of its own waves
I bet the stars spend hours in the mirror
Getting pretty
Putting on extra sparkle
Hoping that she will notice them in the moonlight
I imagine the morning gets jealous whenever she wakes up at noon
I bet the knees of twilight buckle whenever she compliments a sunset
I bet the streetlights shine a little bit
Simply because she is standing underneath them
I bet the sidewalk plays a symphony
Just to make sure that her feet have something to listen to in between steps

I can’t describe the sound of her voice
The music in her hugs
Or the rose pedals in her walk
But I know
I know that she is more than just another piece of land waiting to be claimed


She is an acoustic guitar
Waiting patiently for the hands that have been trained to hold her properly
She is a wind chime inside of a culdesac

And her skin is a melody
That very few men will have the pleasure of hearing

my favorite. by Rudy Francisco (via maktubian) —

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