PeachyBunn

you may tell yourself that this isn't about you. every time you look away, you'll be wishing you hadn't, wishing you hadn't started reading in the first place, because now you can't stop. i can't stop either: every time my pen touches paper, or my hands touch the keys, my heart is touching yours -- i know you shy away from that, but inevitability is something we writers love about life. there are some shades of love that color even your resistant soul. of course, that's part of the hell. the dreams every night, more real than reality; the silence when i whisper your name in an empty room; the endless fantasies, drawing me away from waking