maraudersmap5210

The smell of strawberries Always puts me in mind of you. But then, what doesn't? The touch of grass, the taste of beer, The sound of Russian – everything Is overshadowed by the thought of your laugh, Of that smile, so sweet and so open, That it can't possibly be for me, And I am frightened. But maybe it's okay to be scared by that, By the insanity that is Your love for me, Matched only by My love for you. Because in the end we are just Two terribly damaged children Playing at love (as though love, love like this, could ever be a game). At least, in this terrifying whirlwind Of life as we have known it, Comprised o

Throughout my early twenties, I was involved in a tumultuous love affair with a fiery redhead who had a penchant for John Irving and a Vonnegut tattoo on her left instep; she broke it off when I drunkenly confessed my preference for Bradbury, and I was left naked and alone in my bed.