I'll Be Inside The One Who Holds

At Least The Girls In Stories Were Alive Before They Died.

But Be Careful; Sand Is Already Broken But Glass Breaks. The Shoes Are For Dancing, Not Running Away.

What Sexual Preference Do You Hope She Has?” “happiness.” Isnt That Cool?

At First We Raced Through Space, Like Shadows And Light; Her Rants, My Raves; Her Dark Hair, My Blonde; Black Dresses, White. She's A Purple-black African-violet-dark Butterfly And I A White Moth. We Were Two Wild Ponies, Dawn And Midnight, The Wind Electrifying Our Manes And Our Hooves Quaking The City; We Were Photo Negatives Of Each Other, Together Making The Perfect Image Of A Girl.

Love Can Transform Us. It Can Be A Healing Force Or A Disaster, A Tidal Wave, A Tornado. It Can Burn And Scar Us Or Heal Our Scars. It Can Be The Ghost That Haunts Us, Or The Best Friend Who Reads Our Every Thought. Love May Arrive Like An Angel Of Mercy, A Fairy With Raven Wings Or A Hairy Beast That Will Tear Us Apart Limb From Limb, Kill And Savor Us Down To The Bones.