Her sparkling eyes, full of bliss, like the stars we used to watch together.
Her smile, warm as the sunny days, filled with the scent of her vanilla perfume and shivers down my spine every time our sight meets.
Her blushing cheeks remind me of blossoms and the innocent touch of us holding onto each other subdues the ache of love.
The right euphemism for love does not exist, we are simply left with the bruises of love. Of love that is all just raw and cruel.
Love does not breathe of her sun-warmth skin nor the constellations in which we seek the eternity of us.
Instead it resembles cracking broken glass under shivering limbs.
Shivering limbs running, looking throughout the enduring emptiness for the slightest sign of warmth so the scent (your soul aches for so deeply) might appear after the ray of found sunlight meets with the softness of her skin.
Yet, I still would choose love.
Although love means shattering your soul into pieces.
Into pieces from which you build the path to the hidden sunlight.
For her, I would rebuild myself millions of times—pick up every piece by bare hands and build a new path.
I would devotedly rebuild millions of paths just for the possibility of one of them leading closer to her sparkling eyes.