lunes, 6 de octubre de 2014

The weird type.

She was the definition of tragic,
and majestic.

She liked Sylvia Plath poems,
because sadness meant purity to her,
and she craved purity.

She liked sleeping with the curtains open, 
just to enjoy the morning light. 
She was the rain, 
and the sun.

But to me, she was a hurricane. 
And I was just latching onto the floor, 
getting the chance to witness her.. 

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