You know why I don't talk to pretty girls? Because if you never talk to them, they can be as beautiful as your wildest imagination.
Sitting crosslegged on a concrete bench in a New Orleans park.
Already she has my heart.
Soft little hand gliding out words from her cheap number two pencil to her lilac-bound notebook.
Now it’s beginning to be too much.
Hot strands of unbelieveably red hair catching glints of the 5 o’clock sun, streaks of cinnamon silk dancing down the crème skin of her face, each freckle handdrawn with a beautiful breathtaking perfect that only god could have created.
Red Headed Angel!
Who are you?
Why aren’t we in love?
And what are you thinking about?
Sitting in your sanctuary beneath an old tree writing your heart out in ink, not knowing that your hair steals my breath each time you brush it back
The most perfect silent shimmering waves of sunrises that smell of fresh, clean love.
Vanilla.
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