The Girl who is Ink and Parchment

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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.

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