and there's no sun.
it's cold.
flush has crept on his, usually - porcelain white skin.
he smiles sincerly at some casual joke and one extremely familiar dimple appears at the corner of his mouth.
he's always sincere.
he smells like fruit, cigarettes and a slight dose of guilt.
until recently, i didn't even knew what colour his eyes were.
i suppose i was too busy, watching the shadows his long eyelashes were throwing, while his closed eyelids were fluttering because of the bright sunlight.
art.
but now it's cold.
and there's no sun.
his eyes are disinterestingly open and i can peacefully stare at the - at first - ordinary, green shade of his irises.
but no - they aren't just green.
they are an exposion of colours.
gold strings are interwining with the neutral tone.
and there's no sun.
before i could see them more properly, i get distracted.
i get distracted easily.
just now i notice how tired he looks how dark shades are painted under his eyes.
i don't know and i never will.
his exhausted gaze wanders across the room.
even if he doesn't show it - i perfectly know that he is so much more than he shows us - the simple mortals.
i wish i could see pearl white snowflakes in contrast with his black, rebellious hair, but he has hid it under a heavy hat, leaving everything to my imagination.
fortunately - i have a very wild one.
how can something so imperfect be so flawless at the same time - i wonder dearly.
i notice how his hand is nervously pulling down the sleeve of his winter jacket - nervous thing he does, i have seen it before.
i have seen a lot of things.
i watch curiously how his long, pale fingers are playing with the soft material of the clothing.
white skin - dark background.
scared, that's how he looks.
how can something so imperfect be so flawless at the same time?
it's cold.
and there's no sun.
flush has crept on his, usually - porcelain white skin.
he smiles sincerly at some casual joke and one extremely familiar dimple appears at the corner of his mouth.
he's always sincere.
he smells like fruit, cigarettes and a slight dose of guilt.
until recently, i didn't even knew what colour his eyes were.
i suppose i was too busy, watching the shadows his long eyelashes were throwing, while his closed eyelids were fluttering because of the bright sunlight.
art.
but now it's cold.
and there's no sun.
his eyes are disinterestingly open and i can peacefully stare at the - at first - ordinary, green shade of his irises.
but no - they aren't just green.
they are an exposion of colours.
gold strings are interwining with the neutral tone.
and there's no sun.
before i could see them more properly, i get distracted.
i get distracted easily.
just now i notice how tired he looks how dark shades are painted under his eyes.
i don't know and i never will.
his exhausted gaze wanders across the room.
even if he doesn't show it - i perfectly know that he is so much more than he shows us - the simple mortals.
i wish i could see pearl white snowflakes in contrast with his black, rebellious hair, but he has hid it under a heavy hat, leaving everything to my imagination.
fortunately - i have a very wild one.
how can something so imperfect be so flawless at the same time - i wonder dearly.
i notice how his hand is nervously pulling down the sleeve of his winter jacket - nervous thing he does, i have seen it before.
i have seen a lot of things.
i watch curiously how his long, pale fingers are playing with the soft material of the clothing.
white skin - dark background.
scared, that's how he looks.
how can something so imperfect be so flawless at the same time?
it's cold.
and there's no sun.