April 22, 2015
6:47 p.m.
I ever so often happen to find myself thinking about "him".
I don't exactly see
let alone even know who he is.
All I know is I find myself writing day and night about a beauty of a guy
my mind paints.
My fingers tend to tremble as I write about all
and everything
I know "him" as.
I write everything.
Everything I crave, such as the soft touch of his rough hand
to my bisque and delicate skin.
And the way he briskly talks to me for hours.
Usually my time spent thinking about "him" is
ephemeral.
But that's nothing compared to my time writing about
"him".
(k.l.b.)
