Ink runs through her veins .
She starts to write him into her story , using nothing but the rusted typewriter in the back of her brain. Using nothing but twenty six alphabetic letters she claims that it helps her forget yesterdays pain . Feel the unspoken poetry of lust and desire between your legs thats what she writes for her love at the end of every letter before she stamps it with blood red lipstick. Miles and miles apart from him she can hear his moans in the middle of the heavy rain and thunderstorms across the Atlantic ocean . As he sits in bed reading his love letters under the covers with legs wide spread. She texts him after an hour saying my poetry tells me what you do to yourself in the dark. I guess that's why some call love an art ~
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
Ink runs through her veins .
She starts to write him into her story , using nothing but the rusted typewriter in the back of her brain. Using nothing but twenty six alphabetic letters she claims that it helps her forget yesterdays pain . Feel the unspoken poetry of lust and desire between your legs thats what she writes for her love at the end of every letter before she stamps it with blood red lipstick. Miles and miles apart from him she can hear his moans in the middle of the heavy rain and thunderstorms across the Atlantic ocean . As he sits in bed reading his love letters under the covers with legs wide spread. She texts him after an hour saying my poetry tells me what you do to yourself in the dark. I guess that's why some call love an art ~
