But The Thing About A Cry For

Trying To Write About Love Is Ultimately Like Trying To Have A Dictionary Represent Life. No Matter How Many Words There Are, There Will Never Be Enough.

Things Are Going So Well. We’re Volleying Words Back And Forth. Everything She Says, I Have Something I Can Say Back. We’re Sparking, And Part Of Me Just Wants To Sit Back And Watch. We’re Clicking. Not Because A Part Of Me Is Fitting Into A Part Of Her. But Because Our Words Are Clicking Into Each Other To Form Sentences And Our Sentences Are Clicking Into Each Other To Form Dialogue And Our Dialogue Is Clicking Together To Form This Scene From This Ongoing Movie That’s As Comfortable As It Is Unrehearsed.

When You Live As I Do, You Cannot Indulge In Jealousy. If You Do, It Will Rip You Apart.

No Funny Stuff In Here Tonight, You Understand?” Dash Said, “i Assure You I Could Not Contemplate Any Of Your So-called Funny Stuff Seeing As How I Have No Idea Why I’m Even Here.” Mark Scoffed. “you Bookish Little Pervert.” “thank You, Sir!” Dash Said Brightly.

I Can See That The Sadness Has Returned. And It's Not A Beautiful Sadness- Beautiful Sadness Is A Myth. Sadness Turns Our Features To Clay, Not Porcelain.