She was his North. ~ Mark Thompson
Her heart’s not of gold as a good heart should be. It was molded from birth through ash-filled past days, mistakes and dismay. Through times so unjust, fear-fuelled through mistrust, dripping muddy-teared faces and tempting memory erases. The lessons now known gave her heart the way, in compassionate trust to see through the storm, to…
She was a Sunday morning sleep in ~ Mark Thompson
I want to breathe in your breath. I want to breathe it in until I don’t even know if it’s your breath or mine that we’re inhaling; Whether it’s your breath or mine filling our lungs. ~ Mark Thompson
He looked upon her like a child watching fireworks; for the very first time.
A footnote told their story.* ~ Mark Thompson *
She gave away her heart like a bee gives away it’s sting.
She was the graffiti-covered wall. Her atoms were bricks, forged in a furnace of moments, her mortar holding them tight. She was drenched in the paint of those who touched her. Layered in angst; coloured with love; splashed in memories; peeling with scars. She weathered the storms and accepted her cracks, and loved every inch…
Billions of neurons firing, and the strongest of pathways are for you. ~ Mark Thompson
Sometimes she would scream, like plastic-wrapped lamb chops in a grocery store; only a month prior. ~ Mark Thompson