When their fingers touched, he didn’t just hold her hand. She became an extension of him and he, an extension of her. ~ Mark Thompson

Moist towelette

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

Future’s reminisce

She was the bulb, not quite in bloom, a petal-layered lock; her deep within. Alone in a field of similar form yet to unfold on Spring’s warming kiss, A yearn to feel that touch on skin, the gentle breeze stroking her stigma’s end, in blissful thoughts of evolving dorm, she lay warm in the light…


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…

Lamb chops

Sometimes she would scream, like plastic-wrapped lamb chops in a grocery store; only a month prior. ~ Mark Thompson

A wolf in sheep’s clothing

She was a wolf in sheep’s clothing and oh what a journey that was for her! You see, as a wolf she had no way, to sheer the sheep ending in decay, Up against her skin in dress of red, of callous, dripping, sheepish bled. So she would tear apart the flesh of sheep, one…


She wore the lips he would make love to forevermore. ~ Mark Thompson


She was the echo that never returned. A quiet feather floating the soft, morning breeze. Her silence rang out like a town bell at noon. ~ Mark Thompson