She was the mechanism that made his second hand tick. ~ Mark Thompson
She was his North. ~ Mark Thompson
She was the extra-hot expresso. Her taste kick-starting his day – her petite, aromatic dance tantalising his taste buds, picking him up with a playful bite to his lip. She was the heat he knew, the heat he loved and cherished. Each and every morning, each and every day. ~ 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 moist towelette. Torn open and used, to wipe clean the mess left, from just another face; left discarded in waste. Not once did they know Her softness unseen, her refreshing white glow, those sweet, cleansing pores; those yearnings for more. ~ Mark Thompson
He looked upon her like a child watching fireworks; for the very first time.
Billions of neurons firing, and the strongest of pathways are for you. ~ Mark Thompson
She is the single, four-leaf clover in a field of three. ~ Mark Thompson
She was the well-carved sculptured ice, crafted in Icelandic form, a million years before her dawn, so beautiful in every way. She glistened in that crystal shine, crying in the midday sun, dripping stories still untold, on that warming Summer’s day.
When those words leave my lips and travel the distance between us, reaching your ears no matter if you are near or far from here, Know that I am not talking about your exterior; I am talking about your whole. ~ Mark Thompson