Sunday 20 April 2014 @ 02:07 0 stares
She likes her white trainers roughed up because she thinks that gives them character.
And when her laces unravel, she leaves them be.
Her laugh would remind you of silver bells- musical and delicate.
Her smile sends a wave of warmth running down the coldest of spines.
She keeps a moleskin notebook in her leather jacket.
To pen down observations of people
and to sketch the underside of leaves
she picks off pavements.
She isn't perfect
but she seems so anyway
When wisps of hair stick against her cheek
She tucks them behind her ears
and is instantly neat.
She has croissants for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
It makes her feel somewhat reminiscent of a French lady
bon appetit
She thinks she's hopeless but really she isn't
She's a dreamer with dreams too large to hold in her hands
Sometimes she climbs more steps than her legs could reach
And when she falls,
she feels like a failure.
But she isn't. And she isn't me.