sweet smelling wishes
Title: Sweet Smelling Wishes
Rating: G
Characters: Fernando Torres & Sergio Ramos is what I thought of as I wrote this, but could be any person(s) you imagine.
WordCount: 257
Disclaimer: We'll never know.
A/N: This might as well be a poem or something. I honestly do not know what I just wrote. Sorry.
Their love is forbidden, but it crawls into the night heedlessly.
It reflects in the glistening eyes and shades on their skin, it’s everywhere, like stubborn glow in the dark paint.
But they were also a tub of lies and weak murmurs, restraint and pitiful masks. That is and what they ever will be.
Though the tub will be kept closed, because world will never be sought as reality, they won’t let it.
Their reality is under a blanket kept in the most exclusive part of life; the hearts.
They hide there, where tales, touches, and smiles are created, neatly tucked into the membrane to cherish until they crumble.
Until then the crumbled note won’t let them down just yet. Oh, they won’t be pulled away by miles. They’ll be theirs until the others come.
They have too little time to waste on such agony, such truth. Because what is love if you spent numbers dwelling on sullen?
Love is meant for blossom and awareness, no slumber or wounds, so they will run until the air escapes and the heart breaks.
Broken hearts is apart of the package some time in. They’ve known this. They’ve seen this.
And when the blanket is pulled apart, they’ll hide again. And their love will drip from the side of the lid. People will see, but will not know.
They’ll sigh relief and walk along side the fantasy of the day.
Their love is forbidden, but it slides into the dream heedlessly.
Rating: G
Characters: Fernando Torres & Sergio Ramos is what I thought of as I wrote this, but could be any person(s) you imagine.
WordCount: 257
Disclaimer: We'll never know.
A/N: This might as well be a poem or something. I honestly do not know what I just wrote. Sorry.
Their love is forbidden, but it crawls into the night heedlessly.
It reflects in the glistening eyes and shades on their skin, it’s everywhere, like stubborn glow in the dark paint.
But they were also a tub of lies and weak murmurs, restraint and pitiful masks. That is and what they ever will be.
Though the tub will be kept closed, because world will never be sought as reality, they won’t let it.
Their reality is under a blanket kept in the most exclusive part of life; the hearts.
They hide there, where tales, touches, and smiles are created, neatly tucked into the membrane to cherish until they crumble.
Until then the crumbled note won’t let them down just yet. Oh, they won’t be pulled away by miles. They’ll be theirs until the others come.
They have too little time to waste on such agony, such truth. Because what is love if you spent numbers dwelling on sullen?
Love is meant for blossom and awareness, no slumber or wounds, so they will run until the air escapes and the heart breaks.
Broken hearts is apart of the package some time in. They’ve known this. They’ve seen this.
And when the blanket is pulled apart, they’ll hide again. And their love will drip from the side of the lid. People will see, but will not know.
They’ll sigh relief and walk along side the fantasy of the day.
Their love is forbidden, but it slides into the dream heedlessly.