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Literature Text
I came home and collapsed on my bed. The days I spend with her always seems to take the energy from me.
Earlier, as I saw her from afar, my heart sped up and slowed down all at the same time. She confuses me. Simple sentences become muddled in my tied up tongue whenever I'm around her.
I wish she knew how I felt about her, but I was deemed a friend. I asked her out to this amusement park, but she misinterpreted. But in that moment, I could not have cared less about such problems. In that moment, there was only her; her laugh, her scent, her smile. The way she danced around the park, looking at one thing, then being fascinated by the next. The cute squeak's she let out as she grabbed onto my shirt on the roller coasters.
The whole day just passed by me with her at the centre, and as we were eating some fairy floss, a stream of pink cloud candy entwined itself in her hair. I went to grab it, and she blushed as my hand stroked her hair.
This was another window, and I went diving through. "I'm in love with you." is what I said blatantly. She looked at me with slight surprise, then a wicked grin.
She leaned in closer and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "I know, now chase me."
Since I met her, it seems that's all I've been doing.
She runs and smiles and laughs until I reach her and wrap her in my arms. "I've caught you."
"I know," she says shyly, "now kiss me." and I oblige happily.
We spend the rest of the day walking and talking. It seems that she had a crush on me as well, and when I asked her out, she did not know if I meant as a friend or date. So, she just pretended it was a friend date until she knew better.
Now, getting sleepy on my bed, I dream. And I just know it will be of her.
Earlier, as I saw her from afar, my heart sped up and slowed down all at the same time. She confuses me. Simple sentences become muddled in my tied up tongue whenever I'm around her.
I wish she knew how I felt about her, but I was deemed a friend. I asked her out to this amusement park, but she misinterpreted. But in that moment, I could not have cared less about such problems. In that moment, there was only her; her laugh, her scent, her smile. The way she danced around the park, looking at one thing, then being fascinated by the next. The cute squeak's she let out as she grabbed onto my shirt on the roller coasters.
The whole day just passed by me with her at the centre, and as we were eating some fairy floss, a stream of pink cloud candy entwined itself in her hair. I went to grab it, and she blushed as my hand stroked her hair.
This was another window, and I went diving through. "I'm in love with you." is what I said blatantly. She looked at me with slight surprise, then a wicked grin.
She leaned in closer and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "I know, now chase me."
Since I met her, it seems that's all I've been doing.
She runs and smiles and laughs until I reach her and wrap her in my arms. "I've caught you."
"I know," she says shyly, "now kiss me." and I oblige happily.
We spend the rest of the day walking and talking. It seems that she had a crush on me as well, and when I asked her out, she did not know if I meant as a friend or date. So, she just pretended it was a friend date until she knew better.
Now, getting sleepy on my bed, I dream. And I just know it will be of her.
Literature
Dreams
A caustically fabricated memory sets a spark in the first exhalation of morning (afternoon?) and she has the urge to cry.
To think that dreams -nightmares- could hold her heart with such terrible claws (but the thoughts of him hold reigns so tightly on her back; he knows many pretty women, and it's only natural to worry after the undressing, the holding hands, the crying in front of him). To think that even sleep, once repose, could beckon tears and heart-shivers and immobility.
She ponders why, all of a sudden, sleep is frightening again.
Perhaps it's the empathy of her nature. She feels heart-wrenching guilt for moments long past; sh
Literature
A Photographic Dream
The faded black and white photograph sits idly on the vanity. My exact likeness stares out at me from within the flowered frame. We stare at each other, admiring the intricate feature we share. She seems to understand how lucky I was to inherit such beauty from her, the ideal embodiment of femininity. A sort of arrogance glints in her eyes; her plump lips seem to smirk. Her creamy, alabaster skin glows with confident. She is aloof, to say the least. I know everything about this woman, my grandmother, as well as myself, by this photograph. I am the spitting image of her. I know that I am much more than my sorry excuse of a mother. I know t
Literature
The Author
Writers paint pictures that painters can't.
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aaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
cute
cute