Sometimes I
read things I've written, and they make me cry. I'm always
astounded when I create something I think is beautiful. This might sound like some twisted sort of
vanity, but its not meant to; once I write something down, I don't feel like it is me anymore. It is it.
It is beautiful for its own reasons.
I like stories.
Dreamy-eyed and far-away, you're not here. You're in her arms, as you recount
a perfect moment of love beneath stars. I've never seen you this
honest before. I'm lucky to be here, to be
listening.
I will keep your story wrapped up in my silver box, for it has amazed me.
Capture my attention and tell me what your
Grandmother's house
smelled like at
Christmas.
Tell me about
grass stains.
Rug burns.
Cranberry wine.
I will tell you of
peonies and dirt.
Christina Rosetti set to music.
The
moon of the plains.
The stupid things we never
write down, and never tell anyone, but will never cease to make us
smile.
Please tell me a story.