Eight
Today I have nothing to say. I have nothing to rave about and bury my face in a pillow and scream. Because you weren't there at all today. So I will muse about how beautiful you are when you paint. When your eyebrows furrow together when you carve lines into the clay, I want to kiss your forehead until you smile. I want to feel the way your hand moves when you run a brush over your sculpture. I need to feel every bit of your heart until you are writhing in my palm, screaming because I broke you and you cannot be fixed.
Second comes my love.
First comes my pain.
June 10, 2014 7:10pm
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