WriteReadListen

Sweet and sensual, The feel of your fingers on my skin. Slow and longing, The trail of your hands on my curves. Languid and helpless, The pulsing of my veins under your masterful strokes. My love for you is like my love for apples. Juicy, crunchy, delicious... And as dark as a sinner's heart.

Dear Stars, I have a bone to pick with you. You see, when I was six, I called myself the nowhere girl... and I coloured myself a soulmate. I made him on crumpled sheets, with broken pieces of crayon, on a playground that was too busy wondering whether growing up entailed stealing their mother's cigarettes and their father's dirty magazines (I suppose I was already wise enough to know that growing up meant choosing one of the many ways of breaking yourself in two.) I hope you remember him, stars...he was important to me (My best friend threw that drawing away on my seventh birthday and told me that someone like me was not supposed to have su

"You need to stop doing this." "Stop doing what?" "Writing me into your stories." "...why?" "Because…it scares me. I'm not this guy that you write about. I'm not some kind of Prince Charming and I'm certainly not a sea God or whatever you like to say about my eyes every now and then." "Oh really?" "Yeah. You really need to work on your judgement of people, because this is all wrong. It's like you don't know me at all!" "So why don't you correct me and I'll fix my idea of you accordingly." "Well…firstly, I'm a really nervous person." "Yeah. Your hands are either fiddling with your hair or your sleeve, or you're biting y

The trouble with the Boy was that he didn't have the heart of Shakespeare, the voice of Poe, nor the soul of Wordsworth, nor the knowledge of Rembrandt in his darkest days. He didn't have a trace of Michaelangelo's spirit nor the angst of Carvaggio and this on its own was enough to dissuade him from understanding that technique was far better than solidarity and possession far more ageless than youth. He didn't have any of this knowledge because his father hadn't had the courage to tell him that he needed all the qualities of these great men, to win over the heart of a woman who had the dreams of Austen, the ideas of Da Vinci and the scent o