I knew I could do so much.
I still think there are things I can do, but I only think.
And some days, the voice is so quiet, I can't believe I can hear it.
A place of poetry, where my thoughts flow out. Where all that was haunting me is burned to ashes and something light and new is born.
Did he know he was (almost) perfect? The pretty perfection of his face? No... he couldn't have.
I was suprised- quite honestly- by the fullness of his lips. He was white- as white as new fallen snow- he was a he, yet he had the mouth of some gorgeous Mexican boy.
Cheek bones like steel- hard jawed and strong chined... really a sculptor's dream.
A cushion- cut sapphire- wrapped in mouldy newspaper. I think his eyes were pale sapphire.
He was intent on his reading- never knowing he was perfect- never knowing that he was hardly flawed... I guess that was his flaw.