And one kiss of passion and love could melt all the frost off her lips.
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.
And ashes don’t write. They only bleed.
When the lights start dancing and the city smells like wine, know that the air around me is missing you.
Knock gently on the closed doors so they can reveal pains they have burried themselves under.