She kissed someone else goodnight tonight.
The flames danced blissfully as they melted the old photographs reminding her that joy can be found even in destruction.
Late at night the heart speaks up, vulnerable, truthful, honest. In the morning the head shuts it up, pretending nothing ever happened.
Being a writer is the closest thing to being God. You create, you destroy, and you leave the world to ponder the meaning of it all.
Those imaginary state lines have become a prison for lonely hearts. If you love the person, escape.
I held a clump of sand in my small hands. I laughed as I fought to keep it all from slipping between the spaces of my fingers.…… Read more “Until There Was None”
We became writers because we believe that things are better left said.