"caprice" poems
Hello everyone,
I'm so very sorry … I feel horrible doing this, but I have no choice. You see, I have published my first book on Amazon/Kindle! This piece (and many others) had to be taken down because they do not allow published material to be available online for free. (Go figure) I wanted to leave the shell of the posts because I felt compelled to leave all your helpful and loving comments. (Silly sentimental, I know), but I also didn't want to just have the pieces disappear without an explanation. I feel bad enough as it is!
I owe ALL of you so, SO much for all of your reads, love, and support. It was YOU that gave me the gumption to FINALLY get off my **** and publish! Thank you all for the warm comments, camaraderie, and encouragement! I will still be here, reading, uploading and just being the Rascal that I am. How could I EVER leave you guys?
The book is called “The Way I See It – FictionPhilosophySoul Food” and it will be FREE for the first few days on Kindle Select, so watch for it, if you are interested. I hope that you go and grab it. If you do, I would also hope that you find it worthy, you would leave me a good review. That will help me get in the public eye! Soon afterward (2-3 days or so), it will be available in paperback.
Find the book(s) here: www.amazon.com/author/jeff.gaines
Or find the book(s), and all about me, here: www.JeffGaines.world
Soon after, I also hope to have my first novel (a supernatural thriller), called “Wanderer” available as well!
Wish me luck!
Big, Biggest Love,
Jeff Gaines
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 7:01 AM UTC
When shall we learn, what should be clear as day,
We cannot choose what we are free to love?
Although the mouse we banished yesterday
Is an enraged rhinoceros today,
Our value is more threatened than we know:
Shabby objections to our present day
Go snooping round its outskirts; night and day
Faces, orations, battles, bait our will
As questionable forms and noises will;
Whole phyla of resentments every day
Give status to the wild men of the world
Who rule the absent-minded and this world.
We are created from and with the world
To suffer with and from it day by day:
Whether we meet in a majestic world
Of solid measurements or a dream world
Of swans and gold, we are required to love
All homeless objects that require a world.
Our claim to own our bodies and our world
Is our catastrophe. What can we know
But panic and caprice until we know
Our dreadful appetite demands a world
Whose order, origin, and purpose will
Be fluent satisfaction of our will?
Drift, Autumn, drift; fall, colours, where you will:
Bald melancholia minces through the world.
Regret, cold oceans, the lymphatic will
Caught in reflection on the right to will:
While violent dogs excite their dying day
To bacchic fury; snarl, though, as they will,
Their teeth are not a triumph for the will
But utter hesitation. What we love
Ourselves for is our power not to love,
To shrink to nothing or explode at will,
To ruin and remember that we know
What ruins and hyaenas cannot know.
If in this dark now I less often know
That spiral staircase where the haunted will
Hunts for its stolen luggage, who should know
Better than you, beloved, how I know
What gives security to any world.
Or in whose mirror I begin to know
The chaos of the heart as merchants know
Their coins and cities, genius its own day?
For through our lively traffic all the day,
In my own person I am forced to know
How much must be forgotten out of love,
How much must be forgiven, even love.
Dear flesh, dear mind, dear spirit, O dear love,
In the depths of myself blind monsters know
Your presence and are angry, dreading Love
That asks its image for more than love;
The hot rampageous horses of my will,
Catching the scent of Heaven, whinny: Love
Gives no excuse to evil done for love,
Neither in you, nor me, nor armies, nor the world
Of words and wheels, nor any other world.
Dear fellow-creature, praise our God of Love
That we are so admonished, that no day
Of conscious trial be a wasted day.
Or else we make a scarecrow of the day,
Loose ends and jumble of our common world,
And stuff and nonsense of our own free will;
Or else our changing flesh may never know
There must be sorrow if there can be love.
5.1k
A sigh signals some sort of disclosure.
– glancing over his eyeglass frames
at the slow downward tilt of her chest
her gingham blouse rises again
as she inhales energy for her words,
words intended to clarify or confuse,
he does not know.
His own exhale and a frowning brow
signal that he is listening-
to judge whether her statement
is real or fancy.
Her words a mercury for her mood
no gauge left as he guesses
seeking to understand her,
to crawl through her veins like a virus,
to know her every desire,
every expectation, even every fear.
He is adrift in his own flaws,
unable to grasp precisely her feelings, her expressions.
His distrust is great whether of himself or of her.
Salt honesty with caprice and tasty fare is spoiled.
Gripping the arm of his chair,
muscles straining to lurch forward,
he escapes toward the door
leaving her words
to fill the hollow behind him.
Tomorrow he may choose valor,
today the fear of authenticity scares him to his den.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
because our dreams of leaf-canopies and lignin
arrive at a certain variety of green, we will zither
anew with song
here in Bulacan; all the leaves are capsized
brandishing inflorescences as naked as
the scent of petrichor girdled
on the cobblestones: they are forsaken not by
trees but by seasons only, a twofold deliberation
of caprice: there is only two of what is spoken.
such is the warmth and coldness,
missing their obvious targets, hesitant and abstruse,
scattered and at long last, never collected
deftly camouflaged in the familiar drapery,
“Tantusan mo!” as they cry for marks to remember,
we touch the cicatrix to measure with our jagged hands
how much we have forgotten.
what we cease to remember descends deep, as wash-hand basins
concur such depth,
into the well of ourselves, later to discover such
perilous foundling in the squall of either morning or evening,
still devoid of sense: still arguing whether there is much
to reconcile with what has been found and what has been pictured
now, altered by such loss: this is danger, and so is nothing,
swollen and tender, the waters of the estero reek of such
remembering – we cannot ignore its perfume, oddly taking the shape
of the next dagger slowly making its way towards the back
of the skull to pare with river-run precision, what we all
try to hold back inside; so as if to say,
“Tantusan mo!” to remember
where we last took off, like a heron,
or a bird, wary of distances.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Two walks at the park
Leisure strolls on her ground
Watching squirrels on tree bark
Before I turn homebound.
Today while passing along
On them my eyes fell
One in a bush alone
A little away another squirrel.
I wondered in my funny caprice
If they have ever had a chance
To exchange warmth and good wish
Or they haven’t met even once.
A little more daring in my whim
I thought the distance for them too far
So she roamed alone dreaming of him
And he unknowing forever seeks her.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
In the depths of the night, where shadows creep,
Lie tales of darkness, so hauntingly deep.
A moon cloaked in mist, a chilling wind's wail,
Where spirits awaken, and courage may fail.
Beneath gnarled trees, a graveyard awakes,
Where restless souls wander, their rest at stake.
With hollowed eyes and whispers of despair,
They yearn for release from their eternal snare.
Amongst the tombstones, a figure does tread,
A specter in black, with a cloak like the dead.
Her name is Lilith, the mistress of fright,
With a wicked grin, she conjures the night.
"Oh! Hear my call," she whispers in the dark,
As she weaves her spells, leaving her mark.
Bats take to the sky, their wings spread wide,
Guiding lost souls, to the other side.
In the haunted manor, spirits do dwell,
Where echoes of laughter turn into a knell.
Ghostly footsteps echo down the hall,
As the present and past collide and enthrall.
The clock strikes midnight, the hour of dread,
When the veil between worlds grows thin, it is said.
Ghosts emerge from their slumber, seeking release,
Their ethereal presence, a haunting caprice.
In the flickering candlelight, shadows dance,
As witches gather, their potions enhance.
With cauldrons bubbling and spells on their lips,
They conjure enchantments, with mystical quips.
Oh! Beware the night, when the jack-o'-lanterns glow,
And spirits arise from the depths below.
For Halloween's magic, a captivating lure,
Where darkness and mystery forever endure.
So, as the moon rises, casting an eerie glow,
Embrace the enchantment, let your fears go.
For on this haunted eve, when the spirits unite,
We celebrate Halloween, in the shadows of night.
But tread carefully, for darkness is near,
And the spirits are watching, with ghoulish cheer.
Enjoy the thrill, the ***** and the fright,
On this chilling Halloween night.
Oct 27, 2023
Oct 27, 2023 at 9:12 AM UTC
Such ignorance,
such temptation,
Such Ambition,
such delusions of grander,
such hedonism,
such debauchery,
such betrayal,
Such jealousy,
Such bigotry,
Such caprice,
Such entropy,
Such stupidity?
such is human Nature.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
Solstice stirs my Druid roots.
Those roots entangle with my dreams.
A language, strange and musical,
celebrates the world unseen.
The druids issue from the grove,
solemn in their robes of white.
The doors of time are open wide
on this, the long year’s shortest night.
Ovates divine and bards will speak,
Singing in the Cambric tongue,
The Druid raises arms on high
to praise the power of the Sun.
She lies upon the altar stone.
The victim of the gods’ caprice
Sunlight pours between the stones
where blood was shed and breath has ceased.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
You live on the canal,
by the little swan
that whittles the sun.
A sudden rush of clouds,
a clatter of sandals -
caprice of Dublin.
I knew of Dublin
and its grand canal
from old books tan as sandals.
I read Yeats for a swan,
Joyce for castle clouds
that yielded little sun.
But you, you were the sun!
You lit green Dublin
from within. Clouds
fled from the canals
of your eye. "Swansies."
And summer's far sandals
were today's sandals:
time shifted in the sun,
took flight like the night swan
through ancient Dublin.
You sent letters from the canal,
letters that divided clouds,
only to calve new clouds.
I've never worn sandals,
not ever, but when the canal
danced in my dreams, the sun
pierced my foot in Dublin.
You were my swan,
my elegant swansie,
killer of cloud,
conquistador of Dublin
in gladiatorial sandal,
herald and avatar of sun,
romantic of the grand canal.
Let me taste unclouded sun -
let sandals upend the canal -
send swans by the dozen into Dublin.
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 10:19 PM UTC
your skin is pale silk, my white hart, my Sol heart,
your blood as it thrums is red Eucharist wine,
your hair all the sun's godly glory and gold:
so Gloriana, lonely amora, who'd not call you the one and the only?
you speak of the sweet whispers that the waves could-- could!-- bring,
you, all fragrant with frankincense and rosehips and thyme,
you, avournine, flow to and away with the moon's ebb and sway,
and who'd not shiver and tremble before you, loreley!
you claim castle and crown with your easy warm grace,
you claim thrones of ice then complain of the cold,
and to touch your lips to petals is to touch her face:
but Titania, appassionata nostra,
caprice and impermanence, grace and countenance,
our lady of the lake!
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
Congressmen, police and ministers
All can be particularly sinister
When they take it upon themselves
To think of us as shoemakers elves
Fairytale beings who then madly
Exist only to work for them gladly;
Drudges to work for them out of sight,
Creatures that give in without a fight.
A sense of privilege causes this.
As fate is always rather hit and miss
It’s not granted by common sense,
More like a caprice of something dense;
A dark deity that is impressed by wealth
Without regard to someone’s right or health.
And the scary people the malady infests
Seems unaware of the evil it ingests.
Limelight and spotlights are the energy
That often drives their ***** perfidy.
But just as often, these fools don’t care
Who knows of their arts, no need to share.
They while away at greed and perdition
And certainly need anybody’s permission.
They only live to gobble and acquire
And never need anyone call them ‘sire’.
The most frightful of these lustful ones
Are those who ply their will with guns.
They decide the good from enemies
And few seem good to these entities.
They only plot their murderous plans
Without regard to the rights of man.
If you get in their way, you are foe.
That is as far as their thinking goes.
For that is the point here, after all.
These creatures ignore propriety’s call.
And the same with society, it is true.
Those needs, for them, will not do.
They work sorcery behind the scenes
And create acts that are truly obscene.
It matters not what is wrong or right
They are ever-vigilant, day and night.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Raindrops now sprinkle an earlier day’s
suicide, so too, lightning strikes my beer can.
And come the moment where I’d wished the
moon there, I’d yet to find the means to seize
it. It’s an unwelcome catharsis as our cratered
dream, along with the car, the keys, the
carnal, and caprice, are possessed, tucked a
deep blue jean pocket, and just above your
rear, perfection had I ever traced it; now
untouchable, rendered my choice.
Raindrops now sprinkle an earlier day’s
suicide, so too, lightning strikes my beer can.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
Fawaz Poems
Published 7 Drafts 3
DRAFT EDIT
Fawaz 3m
Untitled
Justice in the cage of injustice*
I saw the justice being robbed and **** in the broad day light ,
I touched Justice in the Nature but in the societies I didn't really touch it,
where is the justice? there are no justice in this country but not in the world,
even if we see it the question is did the justice see us?no, They have covered it face.
they made some people rich and made some poor ,They say they saw
Then they go and lie ,
They put the innocent people in the prison,
for a crime they committed not,
They let the guilty get away
And make the innocent people rot aways
is this the justice we are clamoring for
they made injustice anywhere to threat justice everywhere ,they made law below some and made the same law above some ,Justice must be for all ,not just for the criminals
and the riches.
The justice is the only purest shape of the voice,
Justice with no partial is what we, the innocent people, long for,
justice is for all not for some
but if there still no change,
I think a time is coming when the children of injustice will not show how educated they are nor how tolerant ,
they will come out with guns ,they will come out with cutlasses and **** the justice by themselves and the atmosphere will never be control again , give us the justice not the Caprice.
The fragrance pen
*The fragrance pen
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 3:39 AM UTC
You enchanted the moon, didn't you?
Maybe you promised her a star or two?
She hunts me with Orion's bow, pacing behind shadowed cloud,
My celestial stalker ridin' low, wanly wrapped in misty shroud.
She whispers stark, yet soft as a breeze-blown tune,
Press on, my pet. You've done so well, we'll sleep again soon.
But we've a fortnight to go if we're to come full circle by month's end.
So many dreams still to sow...To reap those lupine howls once again.
Serenity to insanity, delirious depravity to moon-magicked majesty,
A cosmic clockwork cycle muddling my mind with lunar gravity.
She pushes me to frenetic furies then pulls me to solstice solace,
She masters tides in her caprice, what hope has a malcontent apprentice?
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 10:13 AM UTC
“It is essential in order to protect societyfrom the ambition, greed, and malpractice or caprice of rulers to ensure the inviolatibility of even the humblest home. The right and power of the private citizen to appear to impartial courts against rulings of the state and against ministerial decrees of the day. Freedom of speech in writing, freedom of the press, freedom of combination and agitation within the limits of long established laws. The right of regular opposition to government. The power to turn out a government and put another set of men in its place by lawful and constitutional means, and finally the sense of every individual’s association with the state and of some responsibility with the actions and conduct of the state.”
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope -
She casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
And stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
The stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
Where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
Where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
Whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
Though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: “her age? a sweet 16,
With child, ***** her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.”
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
In limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
And all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
Which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
Neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
But Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire -
Beyond the nave, a gravelled grave, the final Rectifier”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
Juxt
Easy bucks
Market flux
The democratic peace
Imperial caprice
Praise be to lord and Savior
Sacrament, scandal-flavored
Legion of dissenting voice
Treason in the use of choice
Give me your teeming tired, your huddled poor
Bones with to festoon the corporate door
And if you could turn to me, adoring
I’ll check my busted magic billiard ball
All signs point toward what I’m ignoring
Burnt the bridge to your heart, land, deed and all
When time is right, we secretly confide
What should have lain bare in our first report
Our ideal homes of mental cards collide
Seems, in comparison, we all fall short
Glory in history contiguous
Gory details, a bit ambiguous
The equality of man
******* Ku Klux ****
Only with the best intent
Rubber bullet malcontents
Perpetual motion
Toward backward notions
Money flows
Deathly throes
Oppose
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
I have a question. What is real? Should it be based on what you can feel because now feel can be touch or emotion, I feel the suns warm rays the same as I feel my heart break and no one can tell me or you that either is not real because we can feel so I ask what it is you feel? I for one feel imprisoned by the Mold society has put me in as a man I have to be handsome,brave,loving, trusting and understanding but at the same time because I am a man I am by default a conniving, cheating, abusive, alcoholic, womanizing pig, why? Because " we are all the same" such caprice why? Why is it I must feel ashamed to be a man why is it I must be everything you want and don't want, the light of your day and the darkness of the night the Prince Charming in your life fairytale as well as the villain with the apple in my hand ,the apple of my eye is that what you want? I feel as if I'm just the means to an end the end being the moment I yield to this mold these confines in my mind why do I have to feel like I'm the enemy? how is it my fault? you're the one who laid in the sands of his beaches indulging in that forbidden fruit from the garden of eden, your tears now fueling its sea, but all i hear are your cries of betrale his name the lyric of choice but I see, I should take the blame its what is wanted of me the good guy but the moment I deviate from your plans I am the evil one I'm the reason for these broken hearts mine and yours I'm the devil can't you see the flames you set In my personal hell in my mind in my soul
why is it I'm a mockery?
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
*I want to wake you up with kisses between your legs
and taste the dreams you've had of us,
and turn them from a lustful fantasy
to a heart-pounding reality.*
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
Your soul; all its liberation.
Amorphous,
I see it in my dreams in the form of its purity.
Crystalline.
I can never catch it
But it captures me.
My only caprice is to love and chase after it.
The feeling I feel from all your presence;
Your dulcet soul
Encompassing me,
I am enraptured, and can not let go,
You're the light
You are ethereal.
The energy you bring to me is exuberant.
Finally
I've found my felicity.
And I am free.
The way you just exist in your form ,
On your own
Incorporeal in your world.
Thanks for letting me in.
You fly and so naturally just exist,
Contentedly pleasing,
So beautifully incandescent.
In all my dreams where you are my vision,
I see you absolutely quiescent.
All your raidiance giving me what I needed.
I can't find on earth
What I find in you.
You in your power defying gravity,
In a sapphire mist, in your own portion of the world, where darkness never lives
Nor visits.
A place so serene,
That is why I only see you in my dreams.
When I am somnolent, and bound to fall down and lay silent,
Witnessing your spherical tranquility with no vestige when I awake,
You take me to my highest point when I am destined to break.
You are transcendent and truly amazing.
I love you in all your lilt sussuration.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
Seasoned Love's silent discourse,
Dusk of the long distance,
Beneath the mantle of lament
The peak bloom, gnawing decay,
Obscure
The weight of favor;
Annealing fire, moulded by
Winds of duration
Unfastening the raw surf of sorrow.
Incipient caprice, theft of occlusion
Colored by common defiance,
Vile tremors of privation-
Native enclave,
The province of
Vacant, age-eaten elucidation.
The tangled weave, pathos and ethos
Vested
Interior acquisition,
Furrowed paths of countenance
Evincive and drawn,
Affinity found, inhabiting the palisades
Of Immersion.
A furtive glance harbors
The trained gaze whose
Immanent flame-
Emergent
Serous source,
Imbued piercing latency;
A taste of
The fountainhead.
Unprobed theater of the absolute.
Thin supple pith
Identity sealed in skin
Perambulator of meaning and
Lineaments of cure.
Bearing the image of ubiquity
Perceives in the other,
Immortality.
Sacramental Eros,
Subsumes the
Capacity to treasure.
©2013 W.S. Warner
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
It is for no ill will, no caprice on the part of fire, but for love. Man wakens fire from sleep, feeds her, cares for her, and keeps her alive. And so she smiles on him with friendly light, warms him, whispers to him mysterious songs, and drives away all that would sting, bite, harass, or harm. For as man loves fire, so fire loves man and delights in his company, all the more in wild and lonely places.
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 10:38 AM UTC
As I ***** the streets of town, buildings made of grey and brown
Speak to me of people and events I still remember.
Steps upon well-trodden ways, rain makes blacks upon the greys
Painting scenes among the maze, from a long lost warm November.
We once lived on this side-street, our apartment there, small but neat
Moving in we fought the snow that came early that November.
We didn't have many things, but winters all gave way to springs,
And summer nights gave us wings to launch us into each September.
Many of them passed that way, weekdays of work and -ends of play,
Camping on cool clear autumn nights warmed to fire's final ember.
Years passed by uncounted then, new homes we found on new streets when
Our spaces seemed too small, and to the movers we'd surrender.
Walking round I see them all, the homes we made in this town so small
A lifetime spent and good times to remember.
Finally I walk o'er the hill, past the campground now quite still
To a peaceful lot just past the mill, where she went to rest one cold December.
My footsteps give me some small peace, how happiness came with such caprice
When we lived among these streets that I soulfully remember.
We loved the leaves and cool of fall, the change of seasons, first snow squall
And the love was greatest in our very last November.
The change of month took her away, how lost I felt on that sad day
How can I but hate the first day of December?
I miss her arm that fit with mine, I miss the way that her eyes shine
Just every second of lost time, since we loved our last November.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC