Lady-Weavile-461

They say you are a lover, that your passion is unrivaled by any other man, but is it really true, when you say; 'I love you'?  What makes you so different from all the other suitors, oh man?  Why do you touch me, so as to make my heart boil and overflow in golden kindness; to make me icy within, and hot to touch without?  Why can I never touch you without your silver laugh pealing into my ears; why must you use your large, but gentle, hands guiding me through the motions...?  Why does my silken face turn to scarlet at the mere thought of the rolled 'R', the concept of unshaven stubble, and pearl white teeth behind that olive smile?  Why does

...Someday... I want to hear those words exit that beautiful throat of yours... To hear that wonderfully deep voice intone the words of love to an anticipating ear who's owner's heart should be pounding in a new and unknowable way...  I want to hear and look into your kindly soft eyes as they gleam in exaultious joy as your sweet lips fumble for the words... I want to feel a small smile born of nerves trace across my own face as you finally say the words I have waited for... ...But I want to wait...  I want to be able to touch your face with my sensitive left hand and feel your cheek blush under it, to have my legs shake as though they were

It is stagnate and its like she's a sunflower.  Watching the days go by without moving, gazing longingly into the sunset, as her eye closes and prays for a better tomorrow. When she will be able to lift those roots, without hurting, and be able to escape the confines of the garden and fly golden pollen on the wind and chase her sun into eternity.    

  Glass House There is a place called Glass House.  Every window is so clear one can see through it as if the sun touched every pane.  Every room is open, but there is no air.  There is one person living in that horrible place, she is strong; beautiful and adroit.  But she is afraid.  She is within a glass house and she knows it is a cage.  Some times when the sun goes down and she is along she cries.  Her tears do not stain or change the glass; it is there, ever cold to feelings, and hot to the touch.  She weeps but does not speak.  She cries out and no one hears her desperate pleas for freedom.  There is a locket about her neck, a missing