"what's wrong?" i ask her. she sighs, her round eyes filled with sadness.
"do you really love me?"
i look at her for a long while.
yes, i want to scream out. but i refrain from doing so.
YOU ARE READING
clouded
Poetrycigarettes, to the broken soul, are what advil is to an aching head. an escape from all pain. -- best rank: #974 in short story
