Carolina nights have me thinking of us as an undeveloped strip of film to the light. Above my head. Squinted eyes can't even make sense of it all. Maybe we were just false exposure. Whatever we call it, it has me craving the light. Let's develop.
Thoughts of us are like words on pages that are too complicated to commit to memory. I'll make photocopies of them and swallow them in shreds. This may be the closest that we'll ever get. Catch my eyes through the lens. They don't shatter like they used to.
You're playing hang-man with my head, and tic-tac-toe with my heart. There's something disappointing about the silence.
I swore that I would only change in front of your eyes, now you do the same.
Florence Nightingale and nurses throughout history, fell in love with those who they were protecting and curing. They dreamt big, yet woke up everyday with the same pain.
Maybe God really is just a comedian, playing to an audience that is too afraid to laugh.
There are over a million mysteries that fingertips are dying to solve. From her collarbone, to her flat stomach, to her right hipbone.
Love reacts much like roman candles. A crash test tummy beneath the television glare.
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We will forever be a community of writers asking you to fall in (love) or be taken (hostage.) We only want to make you smile, and encourage you to pick up the pen, or start using those fingers on your keyboard!
