reverieforever-blog

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Finally finished my 2′X 4′ portrait of Frida Kahlo!!. For class  we had to paint someone in the style of Chuck Close’s photo realism.  Frida is such an iconic female artist.  Living (and creating) with her for two weeks certenly put me in her shoes.  :)

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sorry

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i. i melt in your arms. yes, that is cliche but not only i, melt in your arms: all the worries, sadness and doubts melt as well. ii. sleeping at night is the hardest especially when you’re not by my side. iii. sometimes, when words fail me, all i want to do is kiss you. iv. i don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, months or years from now; but i definitely know whom i want to spend it with. v. your love is the genuine-st.

s.a., small things that are significant (via soulfulreverie)

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beginnings

of five stories i may never write. 

#1 Her hair reminded me of all things terrible and red. Fire at night in any place where there isn’t supposed to be a fire. A bright perfect apple on a dingy sidewalk next to the shards of a broken brown bottle. A popped blood vessel that stains the corner of an otherwise brilliantly blue eye. All these images bubbled in my brain, but the odd thing was that I was drawn to that sinister red hair and longed to feel it gently under my fingers or to gather it in a passionate handful.

#2 The old man behind the counter always reads books and reeks of cigarette smoke and glares at you behind round spectacles and under bushy black eyebrows. Under his intense gaze, you suddenly discover you are naked with all of your sins tattooed upon your skin.

#3 His blessing was that he always smelled like the woods. But not the woods in your backyard that you used to run to when you were a kid. It’s not the woods with the same old trees you see outside  your window and the same old dirt you have always trampled under barefeet. His is the woods of a fresh, faraway place with evergreens whose branches you softly run your hand across.

#4 It is the way his lips press against the rim of the glass of lemonade and the way his top lip is wet when he pulls away and sticky and sweet, I’d imagine, and it’s the way he slowly rolls his tongue over it, wickedly reminding me of the fact that I can’t do the same, that derails my train of thought.

#5 The rain runs down her nose and falls softly to her full, pink lips and never in his life had he wanted to be rain until he watched this phenomena.

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fingertips

did your fingertips burn when they turned the pages of my underdress? for the silk smoldered so quickly- and the ashes fluttered softly to the ground, and covered our naked bodies like a thousand dead little butterflies. was there a tremble in your fingertips when you felt the madness in me bubble heedlessly to the surface, a glorious champagne toast! to the rapacious wolf that hunts beneath both our skins. tell me, was there a chance your fingertips would want to linger there? with me? but no leave now you have had your stay you have had your way you have charred the pages of the gospel you have breathed lilies onto a garden of freckles and blush you have let them flourish there with petals that unfold to breathe the dew of the morning from swollen lips and you have let them crumple in the storm from monsoon hips and now you have let them turn brown and wither and die. it is daylight now. you take your glasses and see me clearly- a shimmering ghost of the home that you sought, you take your glasses in those sweetly sinful inferno fingertips, brush off the dead butterflies and the crumpled petals, and you leave. tell me, will lilies grow again? k.l.w.