Body aching
Head is racing

Fears come alive
Silences become blatant clamors of the night

Fiction morphing into reality
Rationality slips away

Craving the sweet escape of a dark serenity
Awaiting dawn, the centuries drag on

A satchel full of wanderlust
Leaving a house full of memories
The cobble streets welcome the longing footsteps
An eager stride and wide eyes
Experience to be had
Innocence to be lost
Daring for adventure
No destination to claim

Your attire was what first caught my attention.
You see, Polar bears are my favorite.
It took me a moment to look upon your handsome face,
But I'm thoroughly glad I did.
I saw my future in your bright green eyes...
That's when I decided to ask you about your sweater.

The distinct click-clack of rustic red leather cowboy boots were what first captured my attention. She had her nose in a well-worn book as she shuffled down the parkway to a bench. As she turned the page, I could see an indentation of her fingers on the cover. Although she must have poured through the pages numerous times, she was chewing on her slightly plump lips as if she wasn't sure what fate were to become of her favorite character. The frames of her glasses were not intentionally big, but appeared bulky due to her small stature. The black lenses would occasionally slide down her sun-kissed nose but would soon be readjusted without notice. Her skin was pale enough that her old and slightly frayed jeans must surely still stain her legs blue. As I was about to tear my eyes away from her innocent demeanor, a slight breeze rustled through her kinked long hair exposing a symbol of defiance inked in the form of an animal between her shoulder blades. Her presence was a foreign pleasantry.

Am I a warrior
Can I stand amongst a thousand men
Do I have a heart full of bravery
Or do I cower away in fear
Will I go toe to toe and make haste
Does my battle cry echo through the enemy
Am I a warrior?

I smashed my finger today. As I winced in pain and blew out my cheeks in hopes of dulling the throbs of my knuckles, I remembered the first time you caressed my hand with your lips.

I've stopped that horrible habbit; you know, the one where I'd always bite my nails.

The nail-bed split and a dark red started to ooze over the manicured soft pink color. I cussed under my breath and held a towel to my wound.

My chubby cheeks that you would lovingly joke about have been chiseled away by age and are now high ***** with slight dimples.

Soaked through the white cloth, I looked down upon my mangled hand: a faint line from your devotion still remains.

My shaky hand searched for the band-aids. Although I could no longer see the blood, the sting still lingered. Without notice I shifted my movements, catering to the ache.