I Suppose That's The Secret, If You're

Don't Worry About What You're Writing Or Whether It's Good Or Even Whether It Makes Sense.

His Eyes Are The Color Of Honey. These Are The Eyes I Remember From My Dreams.

My Heart Is Drumming In My Chest So Hard It Aches, But It's The Good Kind Of Ache, Like The Feeling You Get On The First Real Day Of Autumn, When The Air Is Crisp And The Leaves Are All Flaring At The Edges And The Wind Smells Just Vaguely Of Smoke - Like The End And The Beginning Of Something All At Once.

The Memories Seem Like Snapshots From Someone Else’s Life.

Alex Loved Books. He Was The One Who First Introduced Me To Poetry. That's Another Reason I Can't Read Anymore.