In you there's a novel, a poem, a book and a pen,
a story and a rainbow and distant light. There's beautifully
corrupted purity, tortured passions twisted in a
blue-eyed-sort-of-way. I wished for once to write that, but
I ended up writing just to
feel the shape of the letters and the age of the paper and
you, your stories, memories like the sounds of ghosts, twisting
in my ears. There are days like vapours, blowing away
like smoke in your tangled hair, wispy tendrils fading
beside me into thin air.
A/N:For many, many people.
Sometimes I'd like to be able to make sense out of what I write.
On a totally separate note, The Decemberists' Hazards of Love album is fantastic. That probably helped me write this.