I’m falling in the pit of pretty and all I can see is a staunch wall of azure and black; my eyes stopped seeing anything but art ever since you stole into my mini bar and spilled red wine on the ugly portrait I made of you. Two days later, I couldn’t find the canvas anymore; I’d grown inconceivably fond of the stain.
I’m falling in the pit of pretty and the twelve year old me would say ‘I’d rather be anywhere else but here’. But you stopped looking for me the fourteenth time I ran away and I, since then, have remained lost.
I’m falling in the pit of pretty and I don’t know if hell is anywhere close because I’ve always felt the same way about it. You trip on stones and the rock-hard pieces of the hearts I broke and there it is, hell on your lips. But Dante said hell has nine circles and you’re surprised how I house it all in me.
I’m falling. I’m falling. I don’t know what the time is, and I really couldn’t have cared less; because you’d rather spend your afternoons reading A Song of Ice and Fire, than solving a gone case. The pit of pretty would definitely interest her, but she only likes falling when it comes to falling for you.
I could yell, and I was going to, before I saw you; a pair of two of the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen, accompanied with a slash of red across your cheek, one I remember you had only in a painting. Before my eyes stopped seeing anything but art, my hands touched you and smeared my heart in colour. If I die today, know that I had fallen, for you, fallen to a place so surreal that all I could see was beauty and all that was beautiful was you.