The Thief

He stole it. His photographer’s eye watching my face for every shade while his musician fingers played sonatas under the privacy of the table. Every time I got close he pulled back “No. It belongs to me now.” And paused  his manipulations until I was almost back to thinking in coherent sentences. He milked my … More The Thief


Sometimes it is too raw this loneliness. The exhaustion of having to carry it all myself. Sometimes it is too much. When all I want is to crawl in your lap and envelope ourselves with silence but you exist only in a future memory. Sometimes it is too real. So real I can’t talk because … More Sometimes