The Guest
The scariest thing is opening my soul to you my guest.
As I watch you walk up the red carpet in my chest approaching my heart, the thought of opening these doors in my heart is inflexible.
You the flawless guest for the perfect event behind these doors.
You dressed in Gucci from head to toe, cologne scent too perfect to be gasped.
The knot of your tie perfectly made no slave was to survive this knot.
Shoes shinning like a mirror I can see myself smiling to your approach.
Menthols were made from your breathe as I can feel your breathe from miles and miles away.
You are the perfect guest for this event happening inside my chest.
The touch of your finger let alone the hand is just magical.
Magic I never felt since my mother touched me for the first time.
Smiling as she held me in her arms close to her heart.
As she touched me with those hands that had magic at that moment, butterflies flee in my tiny tummy hence I gave my first cry.
You give the same touch yet I struggle to cry, instead I just freeze.
This feeling I have felt before yet it was from the purest love, could yours be pure?
Could this feeling be as pure as that I felt on my first hour on earth?
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