The pale skin of a tanned girl,
which I touch,
which my fingers glide around,
like I am sculpting a recreation of her beauty.
Blue eyes may match the moon,
but for brown eyes,
where have the compliments gone?
Dare I tell her that instead
her irises match my lungs?
Whatever the case,
I must bask in her warmth.
Because
in this room,
I found cosmic paradise,
a heavenly escape
with heavenly standards,
a chaotic representation of grace.
In this room,
she holds me like she walks through air,
like she is my tightrope savior,
speeding on thin ice above the world.
And I am the same to her.
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