A rose must remain with the sun and the rain or its lovely promise won't come true. To each his own, to each his own, and my own is you. - The Platters
im missing you @ 6:47 a.m. on 2003-01-27
Last night was gorgeous. My email to her:
The cold slips through my windows. I curl into the middle of my bed and imagine you making me room next to you...in my attempts to hide from the cold. Or a flirty excuse to get closer to you.
My heart aches. And I learn the true feeling of heart break. But only because I don't own it anymore...you do...and that's more than a spectacular thing.
Every last word lingers. Every last phrase. punctuation. giggle.
The way you didn't choose to place your adjectives, but they just appear. Like Mozart Lyrics that were never written, merely imagined. It flows like 18th century verse from your heart. If only Shakespheare chose life over death. If only he chose love over art.
I grasp my pen with both hands. I notice my nails are dying. They're clear, but premature.
My head rests against my teddy bear. I pretend she's you...in the cute blue socks you sent that I plan to wear tomorrow.
The perfection of your voice on my voice mail. The machine lady plays with my burning anticipation. I can't push the right buttons. I'm in love, what does this machine expect?
The gentle sense swarms over me. Your soul travels my spine.
Your voice echoes throughout my sleep...