Thought.is

I won’t write about my personal relationships because the ink would make a mark far too dark and bleed completely through to the next page and it would then become too impossible to erase, and sometimes I just need to erase it.

When you drink red wine you know it stains your lips, and your bed sheets when excitement disables you.

You were my November rain. All the same as the dark gray clouds that took me by surprise each year.