This is the summer where empty threats sleep in empty beds. A summer where dreams become over-the-shoulder visions of a world that is nothing more than a jagged scar on the wrist of God. Atlantic waves crashing beyond my window... longing for the unsinkable spirit of Violet Jessop.
Miami nights vs. a golden sunset. Hope is somewhere around here buried in an old shoebox where I left it years ago.
Alibis point fingers as we stuff towels under hotel room doors... because she's supposed to be somewhere else with someone else and so am I.
Sometimes one night stands and fist fights feel the same when it's all said and done. So bring it on, both the morning and the regret. We wouldn't be doing this anyway if we didn't both crave the metallic taste at sunrise. She has a plane. I have Narcolepsy. Both an excuse to disappear.
It’s summertime 27 floors up and the heat waves don't really mean a thing. Been in bed all day sweating this one out with the phone off the hook. The truth will do that to you. Just wait.
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We will forever be a community of writers asking you to fall in (love) or be taken (hostage.) We only want to make you smile, and encourage you to pick up the pen, or start using those fingers on your keyboard!
