You know the girl
Who sits in the second last row in my history class?
She is made of ink and parchment.
She smells like yellowed paper of old books and cinnamon.
She eats words and drinks poetry.
I see her
With her head buried in a book
Oblivious to the world,
Her red glasses sliding down to her nose.
There is always a paperback in her bag.
No makeup or accessories.
I told you she is paper and ink.
Often she likes to stick a pen in her bun,
Reading and humming to her herself.
When she sits by the window in the cafe,
With her chin perched on her hand,
Her honey brown eyes shining bright
And her lips a light shade of crimson
Like the bleeding sunset sky,
It seems to me that she doesn’t belong to this sick, violent world.
She’s too pure for this
She must be from somewhere beyond the realms of human eyes,
Somewhere divine and ethereal,
Where love is the only language understood
The girl who feels like sunshine and vanilla.