The Book You Let Me Borrow We had good times you and I. We were happy for a time together. I painted beautiful images inspired by our love, and you wrote poetry of our passion. You're fingers were painted black from your fierce scribbling, and I had paint in my hair. Be that as it may, when we lay in the stillness, our busy thoughts melted away; into us.The Book You Let Me Borrow3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
We danced and sang in the sunlight. We held each other and whispered secret things in the darkness. We were at home in the tiny flat that inspired both of us. We fed off each other like fire and gasoline. I would watch you sleep while I painted, you would read your midnight ramblings to my thirsty heart as we lay naked on our bed. We were happy, for a while.
Then there came a time when your poetry stopped flowing. It was my fault my love I'm sorry. I was blocking your inspiration, suffocating your ideas. I stayed away to make you happy and you became suspicious. We yelled e
Concrete The Concrete Boy was stable. He was as steady as the seasons change and as solid as the great trees that rumbled secrets in the dark. He was steady; sure. He was not spontaneous or surprising. His life was as it had always been; concrete.Concrete3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
To others he was the calm in the storm. He was the voice of reassurance in the dark. He was always there, never seen unless needed, but always there with arms opened. To the world his stability was a comfort. Inside his stability was a curse sent to rend his soul in two.
His spirit longed to break free of his self inflicted chains. His music, long stifled, longed to pour from his heart. His movement, long confined, longed to burst forth, into dance. But the Concrete Boy could not allow himself such freedom. His smile was broken. His music was gone. He remained trapped in his prison of expectation and smiled for those who