He’s a good man and I know he loves me deep down. He loves me when he tells me he despises me and this I know: because he does it in such a way that his tongue stops tasting like bitter tea and instead pours out sweet syrup all over me. He’s a good man […]
He never laid a hand on me but that didn’t mean his punches didn’t hurt.
Between her first sip of coffee and all the cracked pages of her books: Between the space of her lips and each of her whispered prayers: Between the sounds of her laughter and every dance in the spring rain: He forever lingered.
Time waits for nobody.
Waiting is a losers game.