Darvia123

I watched his tear follow the crease of his nose and creep down to his full upper lip to seep into his good-bye frown. I cradled on him; I studied his face and his skin and his hair, the weight of his head on my chest and his heat against my breast. He gazed up at me and I noted how he looked like a freshly painted oil work- the artist made a point to capture that glisten to his skin, the blue to those eyes, and that brown to his hair. The cried on lashes looked gelled; stiff and pointed together from his shed tears. He was a painting- and beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say. The saying holds truth, and I, the beholder, am held to