Frozen

And one kiss of passion and love could melt all the frost off her lips.

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The Heavy Pen

The ink has been wandering in my heart pushing itself to come out through the pen and fall on the empty paper; fall on the paper and say what it had explored inside. The ink is dark, like a night without the moon;
Or the stars.
And It smells like smoke.
Or maybe ashes.
Yes, ashes.
And ashes don’t write. They only bleed.