Category: writing
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“Come to bed?” His voice, rough from sleep and overuse, breaks through the darkness and finds you where you sit, perched on the edge of the bed like a bird poised to take flight. You feel him move, hear the rustle of the bedsheets, and then he’s behind you, right behind you, warm and inviting.…
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It’s a special blend of sadness One I have curated over the years Made from the soft fruit of your pain And the bitter rind that protects it Blended with the salt from my tears And the wisp of my breath when I die for you in the night Robust with all of the words…
loose threads 