Her fingers curled around his, and suddenly, she understood why Whitman was compelled to write about holding hands amid the noise of comings and goings; their love was poetry in motion.
The sun is peeking over the horizon, but I am already awake.
She is next to me.
Her skin is hot.
Like even while at rest, the stardust in her composition spins and turns
Replenishing her magic.Continue reading Tinkerbell
Last night, I drove 9.2 miles. One way.
I found the fastest route and navigated through the usual traffic.
The usual. Lies.
Trafficked on dark, back roads that wind like serpentine smiles and stretch like the long black roads that live inside your eyes.
Last night, I drove 9.2 miles. One way. To hear you contradict yourself and laugh away my confusion with love on your lips.
The night was cool, and your breath was warm, but still the chill persisted.
And yet I closed my eyes and prayed to taste a drop of spring’s dew on your tongue.
Your lies taste bitter.
Last night, I drove 9.2 miles.
The trip feels longer when your heart is heavy.