Still Searching

In women, I like the small delicate ones, the ones who look as fragile as snowflakes. The ones with ebony black hair and that read Shakespeare. The ones who speak words as poetic as their souls and who don't belong in this world. The ones with the cold fingers and the broken hearts.

I like the ones with the ivory skin and the eyes that could shatter glass they are so blue. The ones whose lips taste like peppermint and who long to spend eternity with flowers blooming from their lungs and spilling into their rib cage, while their head gets lost floating through a starry sky. The creators, the inspirers, the dreamers. The ones who feel music deeply in their soul and live to dance barefooted in the raindrops. The ones with collar bones that catch pedals as they fall from the trees and whose smiles are so intoxicating they could get me drunk. The ones who serenade me in song and dazzle me with their intelligence, ambition, and bravery. The ones whose voice could rival a mermaid’s, luring sailors to their inevitable death.

The ones whose kisses taste like magic and who wear sorrow as the loveliest perfume entrancing me with every move they make. The ones who will lay with me, spending hours looking up at the ceiling and contemplating the meaning of life. The one who can find adventures in trips to the grocery store and demand the world to see them in all their entirety. The ones who dance like no one’s watching and who feel alone in a crowded room. The ones who fear nothing in the dark for they are the dark. The ones with a wall built up so high around them, they are almost tall enough to match mine. Together we could make a fort and keep the rest of the world out. The ones who fire matches my fire, so we can set our lives ablaze and dance on the sun with no fear of burning out.

The ones who are ballerinas willing to bend until they break, their body’s pushed to limits some of us can only imagine. The ones who thrive in the winter. Icy princess, I long to be frozen in your gaze and spend forever lost in the wasteland you created. The ones with black fingernails to match their oversized sweater, I like how it falls off your small shoulder. The ones with so many tattoos on their skin, each holding a precious memory, a book forever evolving and leaving a new mark with the turning of every page.

I like the creative souls, whose hands are stained with lead and charcoal and have managed to get a smudge of it on their foreheads. The ones whose homes are filled to the brim with candles they’ll never be able to finish and the ones who could get lost reading the same book they’ve read 100 times before. I like the ones who don’t look both ways when they cross the dark street, they stop when they want, leave when they want, and nothing can contain them. The ones made of ice, coated in sadness, and layered in a blanket spontaneous actions.

I like the ones who write until their fingers are numb and love to drive at night with all the windows down, their hair a tangled mess around their face, their laugh echoing through the darkness, and singing along to the mixtape they made for a night just like this one. The ones who don’t need to be dared more than once before they do it and whose flaws make them perfect.